


Either/Or

by mahons_ondine



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Bisexual John, Bondage, Dark, F/M, Flashbacks, Hand Jobs, John is a Bit Not Good, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Oral Sex, Post-Season/Series 03, Rough Sex, Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-22
Updated: 2016-05-04
Packaged: 2018-05-08 08:04:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 25,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5489747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mahons_ondine/pseuds/mahons_ondine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John isn't gay.  There's nothing wrong with being gay.  But it's just not who he is.  Not even a little bit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've been wanting to write a fic about John being a deeply closeted bisexual for a while, and this was the idea that stuck with me. It's definitely dark, and it will only get darker for a while. I do intend a happy ending eventually though.  
> Not betaed or britpicked, but I tried to edit it myself.  
> Do let me know what you think!

John Watson isn't gay. He doesn't date men and he isn't gay and nothing Irene or Harry or Mike or anyone else says is going to change that. On one of his more generous days John supposes he could understand how someone might get the wrong impression, at least a little. He and Sherlock are so close. They're in each other's pockets. They're best friends and he thinks that might look like lovers. But John has never done that with Sherlock. He loves Sherlock. He would never do that with Sherlock.

 

He does with other men, though. He's been fucking men almost as long as he's been fucking women.  If his army buddies knew all of his conquests he'd be 5 continents Watson. But they don't know. And honestly they don't count. The men, that is. It's never been like it was with Mary or Sarah his college girlfriend Kate. Women are for dating. For loving. For cossetting. Men are for fucking every once in a while. But only if he can't find a woman. Or he's too drunk to care. Or sometimes, if he's honest, he just needs.

 

There's so much inside him that John is afraid he'll burst some days.  The pressure will just build and build and the muck and anger and bile will fill him to the brim. He'll split open at the seams like a too ripe peach and coat the walls with all the disgusting things inside him. And everyone will be able to come and see, and witness his shame. 

 

It's not like there's anything wrong with being gay. That's not what this is about. It's never been what this is about. It's ok to be gay. He has a gay sister. He has gay friends. It just isn't him. He can fuck men, but he isn't even attracted to them, really. He like women. He likes breasts and hips. Soft thighs. Wet pussies. He loves them. Loves to please them. He's always known he liked women. 

 

It wasn't like that with men. He didn't know. He didn't think it was even possible for him until it happened. It was an accident, almost. He's not sure it was even a choice. 

 

The first time was when he was a first year at University. He went out with a couple of buddies and their girlfriends on the Thursday night of a four day weekend. It was some kind of gay night at the club, or something, but they didn't know until they’d shown up. The girls thought it was a laugh, and their boyfriends didn't seem to mind watching their girlfriends dance with each other. John wanted to object, but he wasn't going to rock the boat. Instead he sat down at the bar and steadily got completely sloshed. 

 

Late in the evening a boy approached him and asked him to dance. John shook him off, an uncomfortable curl of heat filling his belly. The boy lowered his glitter encrusted eyelashes and backed away cowed. John downed the rest of his pint, and tried not to stare at the way his shirt was stuck to his skin. 

 

"Afraid to dance with a pretty boy," purred a voice in his ear.  

 

John gaped, spinning his bar stool around to face the man behind him. 

 

"I'm not a coward." 

 

The man offered his hand, raising an eyebrow in challenge. John took his hand and yanked him into the crowd. The club was steamy. The press of writhing bodies and the bass so loud it felt like it was inside him spurred him on. He pulled the man against him roughly and began to dance. 

 

"I'm not afraid," he gritted out, grinding against the man's thick, hot thigh. 

 

The man nodded, and wrapped an arm around John's neck. 

 

They danced for a couple of songs.  John could feel the other man’s cock grow hard against his belly. He slid a hand down to grab the man's arse and pull his hips against him, gratified to see him tilt his head back and moan.  

 

"Fuck," he said. John grinned and rolled his hips in response, pressing his erection into the crease of the other man's thigh. 

 

"Oh, fuck," he whined. 

 

"You like that?" said John. 

 

"Yes. Please." 

 

"Please what?" 

 

"Let me suck you." 

 

John froze. It had, up to that point, been more theoretical than anything else.  A game, maybe. He didn’t like being called a coward, and he never turned down a dare.  It was just a dare.

 

"Please," the man begged, too far gone to notice John's hesitance, "let me suck your cock." 

 

John groaned. It was just a mouth. Two lips and a tongue and teeth.  It was just a mouth.

 

"Yeah, alright."

 

"Yes?" 

 

"Yes." 

 

The man beamed at him, sweat slick hair sticking to his forehead. 

 

He's kind of beautiful like that, John thought briefly.  He dismissed the idea almost as soon as it entered his head. You're just glad someone is going to suck you off, he decided firmly, and allowed himself to be dragged off the dance floor. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's first time with a man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was briefly beta-ed by a friend of mine--thank you anon_user, you're a doll!  
> Enjoy!

The man slid his hand down John’s arm, and interlaced their fingers as he led him away from the dance floor and into the dimly lit back hallways off the club. 

“Where are we going?”

“Can’t very well suck you off on the dance floor, now can I? I know just the place.”

John shuddered, imagining just that.  The man sinking to his knees in the midst of all those people.  The dancers forming a circle around them, ready for a different kind of show.  John pulling out his cock and fucking the man’s face.  John groaned, a hot wave of lust and shame washing over him, making him dizzy. 

The man glanced over his shoulder at John and flashed him a grin.  He pulled open an unmarked door and ushered John in, flicking the light switch by the door as he followed him in.  The bright white lights clicked on, making them both wince.  The man deftly spun them around and crowded John up against the door.

“Storage room,” he said.  “It’s winding down for the night so they won’t be restocking the bar.  Perfect place for a blow.” 

He punctuated that comment with a fall to his knees, burying his face in John’s crotch. 

“You smell so good,” came his muffled words. 

John glanced down at the man’s shaking curls, and bit his lip.  It was all feeling a bit too real in the stark light of the storage closet, but he was so hard, and so drunk and he wanted.  John wanted so badly.  So he slid a hand into those dark curls and yanked the man’s head back, peering down at him. 

“Get on with it,” he huffed out. 

The man whimpered, mouth falling open, and nodded his head, scrambling to undo John’s trousers.  His hands were hot, and damp, and they felt so good on his cock as he pulled it free of his trousers and pants.  He pulled back John’s foreskin and leaned in, sliding the tip of his tongue against John’s frenulum.  John jerked, fingers tightening in the man’s hair, eliciting a long moan. 

“Wait.”

The man ignored John, taking the glans of his penis into his mouth and sucking. 

“Wait,” John moaned, tugging on the man’s hair, “condom?”

Finally the man pulled off and looked up at John. 

“Do I need one?”

“Well, no. I’m clean. I mean…Don’t you want one?”

“I’m the first bloke you’ve been with, right?”

“Of course,” John huffed indignantly. 

“Well then.” 

The man leaned forward and slid his mouth over John’s cock.  And he let him. 

Condom completely forgotten, John watched in amazement as his entire cock disappeared between those slightly chapped pink lips, the stubble on the man’s chin scratching against his abdomen.  John whined, and sunk his other hand into the man’s curls. 

Oh my god, thought John, my cock is in another man’s mouth.  He felt a surge of panic welling up beneath the pleasure, and ruthlessly suppressed it.  It’s his mouth.  A mouth, and oh it’s so hot and wet and oh.

“Fuck,” swore John, leaning over to get a better view of the bulge of his cock in the other man’s throat.  “Oh, fuck.” 

John tightened his grip on the man’s curls, and began to fuck his throat. 

The man choked and gasped around John’s cock, letting John use his mouth. 

John watched as the other man yanked open his jeans, sending the button flying, and pulled out his cock.  It was thinner than John’s cock, but longer, and so purpled with blood John thought it must be aching something fierce.  John had never seen another man so turned on, and he felt a surge of satisfaction because he had done that.  He was fucking this man’s throat, pulling on his hair, using him, and the other man couldn’t get enough of it. 

John watched slack-jawed as the other man as the other man began to furiously pump his cock. 

“Oh god, you like this, don’t you?” whispered John. 

The affirmative moan John received in response sent a tingle down his spine.  That satisfied, gluttonous moan hit John right in the gut, and he felt his balls draw up.

“Fuck, I’m gonna come,” John gasped. 

The other man’s eyes grew wide, and he wrenched himself back, falling on his ass on the dirty concrete floor. 

“What—“

“On me,” the other man begged, letting go of his own cock only long enough to pull of his shirt and toss it away.  “Oh, please.  Come on me.” 

John shuddered, gripping his cock and stroking it only a few times before he began to come, painting the other man’s chest with his spunk. 

“Yessss,” the other man hissed.  “Oh god, you’re coming on me.” 

“Oh god, I’m coming on you,” John echoed.

The man threw his head back, thrusting his cock into his fist, and coming, come splattering on the floor, and his rumpled jeans.  

They both stayed where they were for a moment, trying to catch their breath.  As his breathing began to calm, John’s thoughts took a turn towards panic.  He hauled up his pants and trousers, fastening them, quickly. 

“Hey, no hurry,” the other man purred, sliding sinuously to his feet, heedless of his near nudity. 

“Uh, thanks.” 

“Don’t leave just yet.”

The man pressed closer to John, leaning over to catch his lips in a kiss.

John jumped, and slid to the side. 

“Yeah.  Thanks. That was great, but I’ve got to go,” John yanked open the door.

“Hey!” 

“Sorry.  Meeting friends.” 

John slipped out of the storage room, slamming the door behind him and ran. 

He ran out of the back halls, and through the club, shoving past people, and ignoring the calls of his friends.  He ran out into the chilly streets and ran all the way back to his flat.  He didn’t stop in the living room to say hello to his flatmates.  He just went straight to his room, breathing hard and slammed the door.  He slid to the floor and leaned his head back against the wall. 

“Fuck.”

He scrubbed his hands against his face.

Oh fuck. 

“I’m not gay,” he whispered, “I’m not. I’m not.” 

And he sat and whispered it to himself over and over and over until he believed it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a brief note on their discussion regarding condoms:  
> I have this part of the story set in the early 90's at the height of the AIDS crisis, but also when there were a great many misconceptions regarding the transmission of HIV (although that hasn't actually changed much, to be honest.)  
> I chose to include this discussion, and these decisions at this point in the story in an effort to highlight them so that they might be compared to other later choices with regards to safe sex. 
> 
> You can absolutely contract HIV by having sex with either a man or a woman, and you should never put you or a partner at risk by having unsafe sex if you aren't sure of your status. 
> 
> Additionally, I know they didn't discuss other STDs, but there is often a greater focus on HIV given the the permanent nature of the virus, and the fact that it has become the bogeyman. 
> 
> These two are not well-informed, and not making smart choices. Especially not given the treatment options available at the time. That said, HIV /is/ far more treatable now, and we need to start talking about it, and fight the stigma. 
> 
> Sorry for the lengthy PSA. I'm very passionate about safety, but also about honest facts.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of John's first time with a man--things are fine. They really are. Until they're not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic was going to be fairly short. A quick bit of backstory on why John is so closeted, and one or two of the times he's slept with men. It's ballooning in my head into something much bigger than I had intended. I write poetry! I write plays! I don't write prose, and certainly not lengthy stories. I guess now I want to though. And I'm loving it.   
> I hope you guys are enjoying it too.   
> Happy happy for anyone celebrating!

Chapter Three

John didn’t sleep with another man for a long time after that.  He tells his friends from that night that he had gotten too drunk, and run off, leaving them there because he felt sick.  It’s the truth even if it’s not the whole truth.  He had been drunk, and he had felt sick, there had just been a step in the middle there.  But he’s not telling, and they seem to accept his excuse at face value.  He even pulls it out a few times in the ensuing weeks.  He isn’t entirely sure he wants to drink again. 

That resolve crumbles after a few weeks.  It’s nearing the end of the term and everyone seems to be having pre-finals parties, so he grudgingly agrees to attend a house party.  He kisses two girls, goes home with a third, and ends up dating one of the other two for the remainder of the term. And it seems parties are back on. 

John is pretty confident that his one indiscretion had been a fluke.  He puts it down to being too drunk, and horny, and lonely, and resolves to never be that weak again. 

If he dreams about it, well he isn’t telling.  If he wakes up sweaty and flushed, and rutting against his bed, and takes his cock in his hand and furiously rubs one out, he always thinks about women.  He thinks about one of the women he’s slept with.  The salty, musky taste of her cum, or the soft silky skin of her breasts and thighs.  He strokes himself, and imagines her mouth on his cock, plump, pink, lips stretched wide.  And after a few minutes he’s almost sure he’d been dreaming of her. 

It seems to be going well for a while until he wakes up one morning the following fall, cock pulsing, already making a mess of his bedsheets, and moaning around three of his fingers.  And that is just not on.

He throws himself into school work during the day, and at night he goes on dates with a succession of women.  He isn’t picky.  Tall, short, thin, fat, blond, brunette—John Watson dates them all.  He gets quite a reputation as a ladies man, and it’s frankly well-deserved.  After all, he’s put a lot of time and energy into being very good at what he does with them.  Of course, it’s not _all_ about the sex.  He likes them; he does.  Women are soft and lovely.  They smell nice, and he gets to feel like a man with them.  He feels confident and strong and in charge, and he loves that.  And yeah, the sex is good too.  He likes getting a leg over, and he does it often enough that he mostly stops having the dreams.  He does have them every once in a while, but he just turns on a porno and jerks off to that.  He likes to watch threesomes.  He only looks at the women though. 

As he’s finishing up his second year of University, John is feeling pretty good.  His grades are incredible.  His sex life is great—he’s been dating a woman he met in his Chemistry class, Liz, for a few months.  He’s on a rugby team with some of the students from him Biology class.  John Watson is a success story. 

That summer everything goes downhill fast. 

Liz breaks up with him when she snoops and finds his video collection. 

His cushy job as a lab tech in one of the Bio labs falls through, and he ends up working at a construction job that doesn’t pay nearly as well, and leaves him sweaty and exhausted and rung out at the end of every day. 

Then his mother calls.  His father crashed the car while driving home drunk.  He’s fine, mostly, but he’s in the hospital, and oh can she borrow some money just until his father gets back on his feet and is working again.  John growls out an affirmative, and slams the phone down. 

“Dammit.”

John punches the walls a couple of times, until he actually breaks through the plasterboard, then pulls back panting. 

“Fuck.  I need a drink,” he groans. 

John grabs his keys and wallet off his dresser and goes to wash the blood off of his knuckles.  He can still feel the anger and frustration simmering in him, and he knows he needs to do something.  He wants to hit someone.  He wants to hit something else.  But he isn’t his father, and he won’t.  He just won’t. 

He wants to fuck someone.  John splashes water on his face, gasping at the cold.  Yes.  That he can do.  He briefly considers calling up one of his casual shags from the last couple of years, but rejects the idea.  No.  He wants something else.  He wants someone who doesn’t feel delicate and soft in his arms.  Not for the first time he thinks about trying to find the man he’d hooked up with over a year prior, but he’s too embarrassed to.  And he doesn’t want to know any more about him, and it’s just a terrible idea in general. 

John closes his eyes, and replays the blowjob that has haunted his dreams.  He sees the man on his knees on that dirty floor.  He sees the rapturous look on the man’s face as he fucks his throat, and pulls his hair.  John grips the edge of the sink, willing away his erection. 

“Fine,” he whispers.  “But it’s only just this once.” 

He stalks back to his bedroom, changes into a black shirt that he’s been complimented on before (and if it had words with birds, it’ll work with blokes too, right?).  It’s tight, tighter than he remembers.  Apparently physical labor has done _something_ for him after all.

John gives himself a once over in the mirror.  He looks good.  He’s tan. His hair is bleached a golden blond from the sun.  And the black shirt is so tight he feels a bit like the hulk. 

“Alright.”

He nods at himself in the mirror, turns on his heel, and walks out of the bedroom, and the apartment, and his life.  Tonight he’ll be his alter ego.  Tonight he isn’t John.  He’s someone else.    


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John goes out to meet his needs. He meets a man named Peter, and learns a little bit more about the things he needs. And the things he wants.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been nearly two weeks since I last updated. I'm sorry! I am still just as enthusiastic about this story as I have always been, and I have heaps of ideas. Unfortunately, I haven't had the time to write since literally every day for the last two weeks has been eaten up by 9-12 hour works days, or enforced family fun time (oh weddings...). 
> 
> I should be getting back to a more regular updating schedule now, so stay tuned for some more John very soon!   
> As usual this is not betaed, and the profusion of punctuation errors are all mine. 
> 
> Enjoy it anyway, I certainly am.

John strides out of his building, blood pumping, beating so loudly in his ears that it drowns out the city. He hops on the metro and catches a train into the city. His feet lead him straight to a bar he's never actually been into, and yet he knows the place. See, John likes to take walks, he always has.  Whenever things get too loud and he can't stop the thoughts from beating against his skull, he'll put on his shoes, pick a direction, and walk. There's no destination, no choices, no thought. It's instinct and movement and an ever changing city until he's tired himself out, stomped the thoughts into the pavement, and his head doesn't feel like an overripe tomato. When that doesn't work he goes in for a more vigorous exercise. It all started in college. And so that's how his feet seem to know. And that is how the blood in his ears and the shoes on the pavement beat a tattoo that ferries him straight to the door of a bar he wasn't even sure he knew.  Just a place he'd passed on walk after walk for months.  

 

He ducks inside.  

 

It's a smaller place than the club he'd gone to. A little darker, a little dingier. The music is loud, though, and it doesn't look like he'll be forced to do much talking.  It suits his purposes just fine. 

 

John walks up to the bar and orders a pint of bitters.

 

He chugs half his pint, fortifying himself for the experience ahead, then turns crisply and settles against the bar, trying to look every inch the casual, confident man on the pull. He doesn't really feel so self-assured, but he figures it's like a song from that musical his mother loves--something about whistling and what you pretend to be will become true. So he lounges and pretends, and it does seem to work. He's getting moony eyes from some kid in the corner, but he honestly looks underage and John is not going in for that. 

He keeps watching for a few more minutes, and sips his rapidly warming beer. He's about to turn and order another, hopefully cooler drink, when he catches a slim young man gazing up at him from under his lashes. He's seated at a table with a horde of friends who are all chattering away, but he is a piece of perfect stillness amidst the rabble. 

John looks him over, and finds he's quite easy on the eyes. He's slim, yes, but not frail, with shaggy brown hair and dark eyes peering at him through quite a smart pair of eyeglasses. 

 

John nods to himself, and then rethinks the whole operation three or four times. But all it takes to make up his mind is for the other young man to lift his sweating glass to his lips, tilt his head back and take a long swallow. The delicate pale skin of his neck is begging for some marks, and John knows he has to be the one who puts them there. 

 

He makes a decision. 

 

The brunette puts his glass down and flicks his eyes up to look at John. This time, though, John catches his eye and flashes him the enormous cheeky grin that has worked so brilliantly with women. 

 

It works here too. The man flushes a lovely shade of red just this side of fire engine, and when John lifts his glass in a toast and downs his beer, hardly noticeable as lukewarm anymore, the man finishes his drink and walks over to the bar. Over to John. 

 

"Names John, can I buy you a drink?" John says. 

 

"Sure. And, um I'm Peter. "

 

"What'll you have, Peter?"

 

"Uh. Shot I guess?" 

 

John grins, "Tequila alright?" 

 

Peter nods enthusiastically, and John has to hide his chuckle as he turns to order the shots. When they arrive John licks his wrist and sprinkles salt.

 

"May I?" He hands the other man his shot and offers his salt encrusted wrist, lime slice held in his fingers. 

 

"Yes," Peter whispers, leaning over to flick his tongue against John's wrist. 

 

He downs his shot and slots his mouth over the lime, lipping at John's fingers as he takes it between his teeth. 

 

John groans, watching those plush lips wrap around his fingers, imagining thrusting his fingers in that hot mouth, stroking the other man's tongue. 

 

Peter finishes his lime and grabs John's lime and salt. 

 

"I, well, would you like to take your shot off me?" 

 

"Yes. Oh yes." 

 

Peter flushes, and makes a couple of abortive moves with the salt. 

 

"You decide. Wherever you want. I don't know, please," he says, all in a rush, and shoves the salt and lime at John. 

 

John chuckles and shrugs. 

 

He buries his hand in Peter's hair, and pulls his head to the side. He rubs the lime and then salt at the crook of his neck. He holds the lime up to Peter's lips.

 

"Bite." 

 

John leans over to suck the salt off his skin, grinning at the whimper it elicits. He swallows down the shot and takes the lime from Peter's mouth, licking along his lower lip. 

 

When he pulls back, Peter has his eyes closed, a blush gracing his cheeks. His lips are parted and his breath is coming fast. 

 

Oh yes, John thinks. This was an excellent idea.

 

"Another drink?" he asks, voice light. 

 

Peter opens his eyes slowly, looking a bit dazed. 

 

"Water?" he croaks. 

 

John smiles, gesturing for Peter to order his water.  When he leans over the bar John crowds him up against it, pressing into his arse and nipping at his neck. 

 

"After you drink your water, are we going to get out of here?" 

 

Peter swallows and nods. 

 

"My place is a bit far. Will yours work?" John purrs, biting his neck

. 

Peter moans. He actually moans, and stretches his head to the side, giving John better access. 

 

"Is that a yes?" he says against Peter's ear. 

 

"Yes. Please," he begs, stretching his neck even further. 

 

And John is done for.  He bites down on Peter's neck, relishing the give of the muscles beneath his teeth, and the way Peter shudders and thrusts abortively against the bar. 

 

"Come on," he purrs, leading Peter out of the bar. 

 

When they step out into the hot summer air Peter finally seems to come back to himself, "Cab," he rasps, "only five minutes from here." 

 

John allows Peter to hail a cab and opens the door for him, following him in. He leans back against the door and watches Peter as he gives directions to the cabbie.  As they pull away from the club, he notices the bite marks gracing Peter's delicate skin. 

 

"Oh," he whispers, reaching out to run his fingertips across the hot pink teeth marks on Peter’s neck. 

 

Peter shivers, and John freezes briefly, shocked by Peter’s response, and even more shocked by his own.  Shocked by the hot flash of lust that courses through him at the sight, at the way Peter shivers and leans into his fingers, into the bit of pain.  Before he can think better of it, though, before he can talk himself out of one of the most arousing experiences of his life, before he can think too hard about liking the pain, about liking the control, about liking the man, even liking the maleness, John roughly pulls Peter against him, practically toppling him over into his lap.  John wraps a strong arm around him, sliding his hand down the other man’s stomach and hip, and has to bite his lip, when Peter arches into John’s hand, desperate for a little friction against his hard cock.

 

“Be good,” John breathes against Peter’s ear, but he leaves his hand on the other man’s cock. 

 

And after that he doesn’t even notice when Peter begins to rut gently against his fingers.  No, he doesn’t notice much of anything on that drive.  All he can see and feel are those hot little pink marks on Peter’s neck.  All he can do is stare, and stroke them in wonder. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John gets what he needs, plus a little extra. Peter is a saint.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic seriously has a mind of it's own. I know where I want to go, but it just keeps growing plot points. I really don't mind though because I'm having a wonderful time writing it. I hope you guys are having even half as good a time reading it.
> 
> There are about 100 run on sentences in this chapter. I would apologize, but that was totally a stylistic choice, and has absolutely nothing to do with that fact that I've never had a proper grammar lesson in my life and am hopeless with commas. 
> 
> Enjoy! Let me know what you think!

The cab pulls up to Peter's flat, and John follows Peter onto the street and then up to his door.  He crowds against Peter, nosing at the soft curls brushing his neck. Peter hums his approval, but John can tell he's not bowled over by sensation anymore. Peter has regained his equilibrium and John can't stand it. He wants…well mostly he just wants. But he wants, needs, Peter to want. To beg. And so John wraps his hands around Peter's waist, sliding his fingertips under the edge of his shirt to tease at the soft skin of his abdomen. And Peter sags against John, trying to get closer, opening himself up to more. And John obliges. He presses up against Peter’s back, and strokes his stomach, dipping below the waistband of his trousers.  It's strange, being with someone taller, John has always gone for shorter women, but the way Peter rests against him, and presses his firm arse back into his cock is intoxicating.  And John finds he doesn’t mind a taller partner. Maybe even likes a taller partner. 

 

"Are you going to open the door, Peter?" 

 

"Unf," he responds. 

 

And John laughs, almost giddy to see him to undone, but he takes the keys from Peter's fumbling fingers and opens the door. 

 

They stumble through it together, and Peter props himself up against the wall, watching as John closes and locks the door, then drops the keys on a table there in the entryway. 

 

"Please," Peter begs. 

 

"Yes?"

 

"Kiss me."

 

John freezes, his back still to Peter. He shudders, a cold surge of fear coursing through him as he grips the edges of the table. He takes a couple of deep breaths to steady himself, and—

 

"John?" 

 

Peter's voice breaks through the roaring in John’s ears, and he has to turn to look at him. He sounds so confused and lost. John looks up at the man across from him, close enough to touch.  His hair is mussed, his shirt rumpled from when John had slid his hands beneath it just a moment ago.  And he looks flushed and small and afraid and John cracks. It's just a mouth. He can kiss a mouth. He's had a man's mouth on his cock; he's had a man's cock in his hand, this man's cock, even and he isn't gay. He still isn't gay and he likes women and it's just a mouth, he thinks. It's just a mouth. 

 

And then it's a blur. John presses Peter against the wall and covers that mouth, _it’s just a mouth,_ with his own. And his lips are so soft and his body so hard and sinewy. And the dichotomy is excellent.

 

Peter slides down the wall a little bit until John is boxing him in, holding him in place with his chest and with the thigh he has wedged between Peter's thighs. And he knows how to do this. It's familiar, easy. And the fact that it's a hard cock instead of a wet pussy that is pressing against his leg barely registers because Peter is hot and squirming and when he moans John slides his tongue into Peter's mouth and his mouth is wet and open, and he's so needy. And John loves it. He rocks his thigh against Peter's cock and eats up the helpless, desperate whimpers.  Finally relinquishing Peter’s mouth so that he can hear those breathy little sounds that are making his cock very uncomfortable in his tight trousers, John moves to lap at the bite marks on his neck.  They’re raised now, warm and tender, and John thinks they’re probably going to bruise some.  And that thought makes him a little wild, nibbling and licking at Peter’s neck, rubbing his stubble rough cheek against the little pinpricks of pain and it’s messy and good, and they’re both covered in saliva and sweat and they’re not even undressed yet.  At that thought John pauses, because Peter feels so good against him, but he could feel better he thinks, and so he gives Peter’s neck one last bite, a hard one, a bruising one, and pulls back. 

 

Peter grabs onto him, fingers digging into his biceps, and tries to pull John back against him, but John laughs and gives his flushed cheek a peck and pulls away. 

 

“Perhaps we could move this to a bedroom?”

 

Peter nods a little frantically and practically drags John across the flat into a small, but immaculately neat room.  John pushes Peter to sit down on the bed and kneels down, pulling a trainer clad foot into his lap.

 

“May I?”

 

“Yes.  I suppose, but… John, hurry.” 

 

“No,” purrs John, “I don’t think I will.”

 

And he doesn’t.  John pulls off Peter’s shoes and socks, stroking the strong arches, the delicate ankle bones, and then the firm calves.  He’s never been particularly interested in feet, and that hasn’t changed, but he finds himself rather enamored of the whining noises Peter keeps making.  Peter was desperate before, all but ready to rut against John’s clothed thigh and come in his pants while still pressed against his entryway wall.  Now he’s completely wrecked.  And John can’t stop staring. 

 

When he’s finally milked every last bit of teasing sensation out of Peter’s feet and calves, he finally stands up and starts on Peter’s shirt.  He’s just managed to unbutton it, and is stroking Peter’s pale, nearly hairless chest when he looks down and catches Peter surreptitiously stroking his straining, still clothed cock. 

 

“Oi! What do you think you’re doing?”

 

Peter blushes and wrenches his hand away.

 

“Just, uh, adjusting myself.” 

 

“We can’t take it slow then, can we?”

 

“No! John! No, we can. I promise.”

 

“Alright, then.  But no touching.  If you can’t keep your hands off yourself then I might just have to tie you up,” John teases, beginning to stroke Peter’s skin again.

 

Peter groans, dropping his head to his chest, and whispering something under his breath. 

 

“Hey,” John cups Peter’s chin to tilt his head up, “alright?”

 

Peter takes a deep breath, and lifts his eyes to John’s. 

 

“I said,” he replies steadily, “Perhaps you _should_ just tie me up.”

 

John gapes. 

 

No, he literally gapes, mouth hanging so far open that an entire swarm of flies could breeze right in.  None do, of course.  In fact nothing passes between his lips.  He’s so stunned, so completely bowled over, that he forgets to breathe.  He had been joking.  He _had_ been, but now he’s imagining it.  Imagining Peter splayed out, and trussed up, and writhing.  He’s so lost thinking about it that he doesn’t even register that Peter has moved until he returns, and wraps John’s nerveless fingers around a pair of leather cuffs. 

 

“My safeword is Saturn.”

 

“Oh.”

 

“Alright?”

 

“Oh god yes. Um,” John looks up from the cuffs, “uh, trousers and pants off?”

 

Peter laughs at John’s wide-eyed stare as he shucks off the rest of his clothing, and it’s just the thing to pull John back into the moment.  It’s all wrong for Peter to be so poised and pulled together.  He liked it so much better when the other man was glassy-eyed and begging.  So when Peter artfully drapes himself across the bed, grabbing the headboard and eyeing John meaningfully, he scrambles into action. 

 

He fumbles a bit with the handcuffs, but it’s alright because it’s worth it.  It’s so worth it when Peter is finally cuffed to the bed, and he is straining a bit to test the cuffs, and John is straddling his thighs and Peter can’t move.  And Peter is there, this living, breathing person, this body to tease and touch and play with, and he’s at John’s mercy, and it’s glorious. 

 

And so John does start to tease.  He’s got Peter pinned with his body weight, and he can barely arch into John’s hands.  And he’s never felt anything like it.  Not with any of the women he’s been with.  Not with the man from the club.  He feels powerful, and his cock is so hard it hurts.  He reaches down to unzip his trousers, and his hand brushes Peter’s cock for the first time, and it doesn’t surprise him.  It’s smooth and hot, and he thinks it should feel wrong but it’s familiar.  He has a cock. It’s just another cock, a different one, yes, but not so different.  Not as different as he expected.  And Peter groans and begins to beg, and that’s good too, so John does it again. 

 

And again.

 

And again

 

Until Peter really is struggling, bucking into John’s hand so hard he nearly unseats John. 

 

“Calm down! It’s not so bad,” says John coolly, trying to keep a smile off his face. 

 

“More. Please.”

 

“What would you like, then?”

 

“Your hand.  Your cock.  And mine.  There’s slick on the table.”

 

John retrieves the lubricant from the bedside table, and shoves his pants and trousers down a few inches, too desperate now to bother to take them off.  He squeezes out a mess of lube and slicks up first his cock and then Peter’s.  He tries to stroke Peter’s cock with his left hand, and his own with his right, but he can’t seem to get the rhythm right, and he’s really not very good with his right hand, and he’s starting to get very frustrated, and –

 

“Together.”

 

“What?” snaps John. 

 

“Press them together,” pants Peter, “and wrap one hand around both.” 

 

Well, huh.  That seems a little bit gay to John, but then again it all seems a bit gay to John, and it doesn’t actually make him gay.  And he thinks about how hot Peter’s cock is and how it would feel against his cock, and it sounds like a wonderful idea.  Not gay, just, well, it would feel lovely.  So he leans over Peter, bracing himself on his right arm, and grasping both of their cocks in his left hand, and the first slide is magic.  It’s so slick and warm and good that he shudders, and feels his balls draw up, and he has to clench all his muscles and freeze and just breathe to keep from coming.  And all the while Peter, no longer pinned by John, is thrusting against him, his cock teasing the sensitive underside of John’s.  And it’s all a little too much, and John growls, and bites down on one of Peter’s tiny, diamond hard nipples, and strokes both of their cocks furiously.  And he’s concentrating so hard on not coming that Peter’s cries fade out into white noise, and he only realizes the man beneath him is coming when he feels a rush of wetness coating his belly.  John jerks his head up, teeth scraping over Peter’s nipple, nearly drawing blood, and he looks down at the sweaty, mussed man beneath him, watching his mouth form John’s name over and over, and then John is coming too.  And it’s never quite felt like this.  Like his orgasm is a physical entity racing through his body, down his spine, and his balls and his cock, and pulsing out of him. And he whines a little, a tiny still aware part of him, is embarrassed by the noises being forced out of him, but the greater part of him is too focused on the waves of pleasure crashing through him, and everything else seems to gray out for one suspended moment. 

 

And then it’s over, and he’s collapsing onto Peter’s chest, and the thunder of his heart is matched by that of the one beating beneath his ear. And he feels so good.  And he just lies there and breathes until his heart slows, and he feels warm and relaxed, and sleepy, and he’s drifting off.  And then he hears Peter saying his name. 

 

“Mmpff.”

 

“John.  Get up now, John.” 

 

“Mm, no.  I’m fine, thanks.”

 

“John! Handcuffs.”

 

“Yes. Lovely.”

 

“No.”

 

Peter bucks him off, and he rolls off the bed, and falls, bare-arsed onto the floor.  And that finally gets John’s attention.  He blinks up at Peter, confused, before registering that Peter is still handcuffed to the headboard.  John jumps to his feet, and immediately uncuffs Peter, murmuring apologies, and then begins to redress, embarrassed.  The lassitude of the orgasm washed away with the adrenaline of his unceremonious roll off the bed, and the embarrassment of having forgotten to uncuff the other man.  

 

“Where are you going?”

 

“Oh.  I’ll leave.  I’m sorry.  I didn’t realize.” 

 

John buttons his trousers, and turns to leave, but a hand on his wrist stops him. 

 

“Stay.”

 

Peter tries to pull him back into bed. 

 

“I can’t.  I couldn’t.”

 

“You can. It’s alright.”

 

Peter pulls harder, and John goes.  He wants to go, and so he lets himself go.  The whole night is a dream.  And so he lets himself be pulled into bed, and he lets Peter strip off his clothes and shoes until he’s finally naked.  And he lets Peter press his naked body up agains him, and lets Peter pull his head down to Peter’s chest, and the steady thunk of Peter’s heart beneath his ear again lulls him back to the edge of sleep, and the fingers running through his hair topple him over that edge.  And then everything is quiet. 

 

He doesn’t dream all night. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter today, but I will hopefully manage a second one this week to make up for it. 
> 
> Enjoy!

John wakes up hot and sticky and blissfully well rested. The skill of going from dead asleep to completely alert in a flash that he's honed through a childhood with a couple of angry, occasionally violent drunks for parents doesn't seem to be working for once. No, instead of snapping up and jumping into the day he sinks into it slowly, letting the warmth of the bed and the musk of sex wash over him. He realizes he's wrapped around a slightly sweaty body. He's got a mouth full of curls and his hard prick is pressed up against a particularly luscious arse. 

 

"Morning," he murmers into the silky hot skin of his partner’s neck, grinding a little against their arse. 

 

"Mmm," is all he gets in reply, but the arse shimmies back against him so he figures he's alright. 

 

"Lovely morning. Brilliant morning. I feel fantastic," he mumbles, chattering away sleepily as he ruts against that plush arse. 

 

He slides his hand down his partner’s stomach, and reaches his, oh god, his, _cock_.  His brain rebels for a moment, but he’s so near sleep that the morning feels more like a dream than reality.  He’s hovering in an oxytocin, and 8 hours of dreamless sleep induced haze.  And so he takes the other man’s cock in his hand, and strokes it.  John doesn’t freak out, or have a crisis of conscience.  For once in his damn life, for now at least, he just enjoys himself and doesn’t consider what it means when his cock twitches because he enjoys the way the other man, Peter, yes, Peter’s cock is growing harder in his hand. 

 

He doesn’t question it when Peter’s precome begins to dribble out of his cock and coats John’s fingers.  No, instead, he relishes the way Peter’s cock slides more easily against his skin, and he lift’s his hand to his mouth to lick his palm and fingers.  His skin tastes of sweat and cum, and the taste is sharp and musky and delicious, and he slides his tongue between each finger, more concerned with chasing down every bit of that heady flavor, than he is with wetting his hand.  Eventually, though, he’s lapped up every last bit of precome, and he lowers his spit slick hand back to Peter’s cock.  Peter starts, hips thrusting into John’s tight grip, and moans out John’s name. 

 

“Oh, god,” John gasps, pressing closer to Peter, his cock slipping between plump arse cheeks, and sliding against Peter’s arsehole. 

 

“Fuck.  Oh, please, John.” 

 

“You like that.”

 

“Yes. Yes. Please,” he begs, hips stuttering. 

 

“Good,” says John, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses to Peter’s neck.  “Come for me, then, Peter.” 

 

“I don’t.  I can’t…”

 

“Yes you can.  Come now,” he orders, and he bites down at the crook of Peter’s neck. 

 

And he does.  Peter keens, arching into John’s hand.  He sounds pained and pleased and excited all at once. 

 

“Fuck,” whimpers John as he works Peter through his orgasm.  “You sound.  You sound amazing.” 

 

Peter chuckles weakly, and relaxes back against John, grabbing his hand to stop his steady strokes on Peter’s now sensitive cock. 

 

“Give me a minute, and I’ll return the favor.” 

 

“Alright,” he pants into Peter’s hair, tangling his fingers with Peter’s, Peter’s come smearing against his palm and squelching between their fingers. 

 

John continues to rub his cock against Peter’s arse while his partner takes a minute to catch his breath.  John wakes up with an erection most mornings, and he usually has the matter well in hand in only a few minutes.  This interlude, while far more satisfying, is taking longer than he normally takes by himself, and he’s becoming desperate.  He’s about to disentangle their hands, and finish himself off when Peter rolls over and wraps their joined hands, sticky with Peter’s come, around John’s prick. 

 

“Brilliant,” he moans. 

 

“Brilliant,” agrees Peter, “and messy.” 

 

“Filthy.”

 

And then John loses himself in the feeling, rolling on top of Peter so he can get more momentum, more power.  Peter leans up to press a kiss against John’s lips, and John licks into Peter’s mouth.  Their teeth are clacking against each other, their lips are wet with spit and they’re both gasping for air, and it’s the hottest kiss John has ever had.  It’s not neat and clean and polite.  It’s messy, and dirty, and wet, and his cock is covered in another man’s come and it’s slick and sticky and perfect. 

He only lasts another minute or so before he’s coming. See, he looks down to watch his cock slide between their joined hands, and he loses what little control he had had up to that point, and he paint’s Peter’s skin with his come. 

 

He rolls off Peter immediately, having learned at least one thing the prior night, and groans. 

 

“Best morning wank ever.” 

 

“Mm, agreed,” says Peter, as he curls himself around John’s body. 

 

Sated again, they both drift back into sleep, warmer, and stickier and happier than they had been when they woke up. 

 

They only sleep for a short time, before Peter’s alarm clock jolts them back awake. 

 

“Fuck,” groans John, as he jumps out of bed. “What time is it?”

 

“Mm, it’s still early.  7:15.”

 

“Fuck,” says John, scrubbing at his face momentarily before realizing just what he has all over his hands. 

 

He grabs the first piece of clothing he sees—pants—pants will do, and stumbles into the attached bathroom, closing the door resolutely behind him.  He grips the edges of the sink and takes in the damage.  He’s sweaty and sticky, covered in come and spit and god knows what else.  He’s got hickys on his neck and a patch of crusted-over come all over his stomach. 

 

“Dammit, I do not have time for this.” 

 

He wets a cloth and washes first his hands and face, then tackles the come on his stomach. 

 

“Oh god.  I really need a shower.  And a chance to think.  But I don’t have time for anything but this. Fuck.” 

 

He looks at himself in the mirror, then slides on his boxers and wets his hair until it’s plastered to his head.  It’s a mess, but it’s better than before. 

 

“Get dressed.  Go to work.  Think later,” he says, then stealing himself, he opens the door and heads back into Peter’s bedroom. 

 

Peter hasn’t moved.  He’s stretching lazily on the bed, nudity on full display.  He looks edible.  He looks like sex, and it smells like sex, and John is a bit hard and a bit nauseous just thinking about it. 

 

“Look,” he says, gathering his clothes and putting them on, “This was great, but I have to get to work.” 

 

John bends over to slide on his socks and shoes, and then straightens up to take one more look at Peter. 

 

“Of course.  Work waits for no man.”

 

John nods and turns to go.

 

“Wait.”

 

John whirls around.

 

“Look, I really don’t have—”

 

“Your shirt, John.  Maybe you don’t want to wear it?  It’s covered in come.”

 

John looks down and sees the very large, very obvious come stain all over the bottom of his shirt.  His black shirt. Great.  

 

“Fuck, I don’t have time to go home.”

 

“Borrow one of mine.” 

 

“I’ll be late to work now.”

 

“John?”

 

“They’re going to fire me. And I can’t believe I did—”

 

“JOHN!” 

 

John looks up. 

 

“Just borrow one of mine,” says Peter, nodding at his dresser. “Second drawer from the top.”

 

John whips his own shirt off and grabs a white tee-shirt out of Peter’s dresser.  He turns to thank Peter, and knocks right into him. 

 

“It’s nothing.  Go to work.  You can return the shirt later.”

 

He wraps John’s limp fingers around a scrap of paper, kisses him soundly, but briefly, and bodily turns John and walks him to the door. 

 

“Uh…”

 

“Go, it’s fine.  I’ll wash your shirt.” 

 

Peter propels John out of the door, and shuts it firmly behind him.  Dumbly, John walks out to the street before looking down to read the paper Peter had tucked into his hand.  It has a string of numbers across the top, phone number, obviously, followed by just eight words in small, neat script: next time, I want your cock inside me.

 

John is _so_ fucked. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had this chapter completely plotted out, and partway written on Sunday, but it got completely scrapped. I had a miserable week, and so I wrote myself some porn to share with you instead! 
> 
> I'm a bit sick, and sleep deprived, and there might be mistakes. IF you catch anything big please let me know so I can fix them!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes he wants, and he wants, and he wants, but that isn't enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's been a while, but I had a lot of commitments for work and writing these past few weeks. I should be getting back into the swing of things soon. For now, though, a short update to tide you over until later this week!

John does actually make it to work on time.  Peter's flat is far more centrally located than John's is, and it's actually a pretty lovely commute. He finds himself struggling to force down the thought that it would be awfully nice to travel from Peter's every day, but that's mostly because his mind follows that up with the thought that the _entire_ morning is one he'd like to repeat. 

 

He shoves Peter's note into his pocket after a minute of wide eyed staring and resolves to ignore it for the rest of the day. 

 

His resolve keeps for a full five minutes—until he snags a seat on the tube—and then he's worrying the paper with his fingers, pulling it out of his pocket so that he can taste the words.  He mouths them to himself. The public nature of his trip is no impediment. He lets them dissolve in his mouth like a sugar cube on the tongue, and the sweetness fills him full to bursting for the whole day. 

 

It shouldn’t be so sweet.  It isn’t a sweet sentiment, it isn’t even really a nice one.  But it hits him in a way that is undeniable.  It leaves him raw and trembling.  And he wants.  He’s tried so hard not to want.  He’s tried so hard to love breasts, and pussies, and he does.  But he wants other things too.  He might have always wanted them, and he could never see through the haze of denial. 

 

It isn’t any good to want like this.  He still knows that.  And he doesn’t want this, want men, in the way that he wants women.  But he does want them.  He wants to kiss them.  He wants to kiss Peter.  To taste Peter.  To lay Peter out beneath him and take him apart sinew by sinew until he is inside every part of him.  Until he owns him.  And that wanting feels so good.  It satisfies something that he won’t admit he needed to sate.  It isn’t like wanting to date a girl. He doesn’t want to hold Peter’s hand, and show him off to his friends.  But he does want to touch him.  To hold his cock.  To tie him up again and to tease him.  And he can’t stop thinking about it.  He has an ache behind his fingertips all day, and somehow he knows than he can’t soothe it with anything less than pressing bruises into Peter’s skin.  And he can’t do that now.  So he rubs his fingers across the paper like a balm, and it has to suffice. 

 

His coworkers can tell something is going on. They keep bothering him about a new girlfriend, and that almost threatens to ruin his high--that it should be a girlfriend, that he shouldn't be considering doing whatever it is he appears to be doing with Peter, but he fingers the note in his pocket and rides the excitement a mite longer. 

 

The crash is inevitable. Of course it is. He didn't actually expect to stay inside the haze of a good orgasm and the promise of literal dreams fulfilled, but it comes crashing down on him all at once when he returns home that evening. He worries over that feeling like a dog with a particularly tasty bone the whole ride home. By now the paper is barely legible, the words smudged from the marathons his fingers have run over them, but he doesn't need the paper. He knows the words. He knows each number.  He lets himself into his flat that evening and heads for the phone so that he can dial the numbers he's worked over all day, but his message machine is blinking an angry red at him, and the spectre of his parents’ whooshes in and crowds out everything else.  Their current situation, their poverty, the way he wasn't allowed to be friends with Scott Mackenzie from primary school because he had two fathers, the way Harry's jaw swelled in the days after she came out.

 

John yanks the paper out of his pocket, and it rips in half, the paper so frail from so many hours of attention. He stares at it for a minute, then tosses it on his dresser. Somehow even now he can't bear to throw it out. He tells himself he liked that shirt, and that he's got too many money problems to be throwing cash at clothing he doesn't /have/ to replace. It's not a very good reason, but it seems to satisfy for the moment. He slips out of his clothes, leaving the sweat and come stained garments strewn across the floor in a parody of the night before. He slips into the shower and scrubs his skin raw. He doesn't let himself think about Peter for the rest of the night. And if he dreams about him then he doesn't want to. It isn't his fault. 

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John makes some choices. Maybe he can even start making some good ones.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's some more John-angst for your reading pleasure! 
> 
> This is not betaed, but it is edited. As usual, if you do notice any errors let me know so I can fix them! And come hang out with me on [tumblr](http://mahons-ondine.tumblr.com/) where I mostly talk about Johnlock, musical theater, and kittens!

The next couple of days are a bit of a haze.  John is snappish and short with his coworkers.  They’re not his friends.  They don’t really know anything about his life.  He ignores them when he can, and nearly growls when he can’t.  The friendly ribbing of Tuesday has morphed into an annoyed silence by Friday, and it’s a heck of a lot better than being asked who pissed in his coffee every five minutes, so John doesn’t really care.  He’s good at his job.  He’s polite.  He’s on time, and his distraction hasn’t gotten anyone hurt so they’re just letting him be for the time being. 

 

It’s enough.  It’s enough to just work until his hands are cracked and bleeding and his muscles are screaming and he’s drenched in sweat.  He hated this job at the beginning of the summer, but in a way it’s a relief to have a way to tire himself out. When he got the job, though, he was so angry that he got stuck in London with London prices, and that he was killing himself in the hot summer sun to make ends meet instead of cooling his heels in a lab and depositing nice chunks of money into a savings account.   

 

It’s not that John thinks he’s too good for this kind of work.  He’s worked construction jobs before.  His father has worked construction, his uncles.  The Watson’s are a sturdy lot known for their hard work and even harder drinking.  These men, his coworkers, are good people.  It’s not that he’s better than them.  It’s just that he’s worked so hard to make a better _life_ for himself.  He’s sacrificed close friendships and relationships. He stopped playing rugby, and started haunting the library.  And it was all ok because he was going to get out and have a life that was worth something.  He would have a nice flat, and money to spare, and his kids would never be hungry. He would do something exciting, something interesting with his days. 

 

And now he is working a miserable job with little money to spare, and the money he does have he’s sending straight into his mother’s pockets and right down his throat in the form of cheap whiskey.  And he hates himself.  He can see how his life will go if he continues.  He is watching the future stretch out in front of him.  He’ll keep drinking.  Take another construction job.  Quit school because he only has time for two out of three, and he needs the job to pay for the drink.  He’ll marry some woman, and have a couple of miserable kids.  And he’ll hit them too.  He’ll be just like his father.  He’ll take all the rage that is welling up inside him, all the frustrated lust, the pain of not doing well enough, the fear of what he is and who he is, and he’ll take it out on someone innocent.  He’ll have two miserable kids, maybe he’ll even name them John or Joan or Harry, and he’ll ruthlessly break their trust in him.

 

But he can’t do that.  John is many things.  He’s a hot head.  He’s a fighter.  He’s proud, and he’s frustrated.  He isn’t good.  But he won’t do that.  He might fail in many ways, but that is one way in which he refuses to fail. 

 

And maybe it won’t be enough, but he can’t let his parents and their opinions run his life.  It still doesn’t make him gay.  He doesn’t feel that way about men.  He doesn’t really _like_ men.But maybe he likes to sleep with them.  Maybe he just needs to sleep with them, because he’s not afraid to hurt them.  Maybe he can relax with them, because he isn’t afraid that he’ll be his father when he’s with them.  His father isn’t a faggot, after all.  His father would never touch another man’s cock.  Women are different.  He can’t help but think of his mother, of his sister, and so he’s gentle.  He wants to treat them like something precious. And he enjoys that, but it doesn’t get his blood boiling.  It doesn’t help him purge out all the anger inside him. 

 

His night with Peter had been something different.  He’s felt himself spinning out of control like a top twisted too hard.  He’s been flailing, trying to gain purchase somewhere.  With something. And now he feels caught, captured by the one thing he didn’t want. 

 

He dreams about Peter every night that week.  He wakes up sticky every morning.  Wakes up nauseous from the hangover, or maybe from how he takes himself in hand every morning and strokes himself until he comes.  And how quickly he comes.  How hard.  How every time he closes his eyes he sees Peter’s mouth begging for him.  How badly he wants to paint those pink lips white.

 

He throws out Peter’s number each morning.  He rescues it from the trash every night.  He doesn’t call. 

 

On Saturday morning he has to drag himself out of bed early.  He doesn’t usually work Saturdays.  He’s filling in for someone this weekend, though, and he needs the money more than he needs the sleep.  Whiskey is an expensive habit.

 

He’s just going through the motions.  He showers, and shaves.  Shovels in a bowl of cereal in his tiny kitchen, while still dripping from the shower.  He’s feeling sorry for himself.  He knows that he shouldn’t, that he’s in control of his own life.  But it feels like the good things in life don’t touch him, and he has to furiously suppress the quiet voice in him that pipes up to say that he might just be keeping himself from the best thing that’s ever been offered to him. 

 

He leaves Peter’s number on the desk, unconsciously tracing the digits with his fingertips.  He doesn’t think about why he puts on Peter’s shirt.  It’s just the first thing he pulls from his laundry.  It’s soft against his skin.  It’s just a shirt.  It feels warm. 

 

It’s just a shirt.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

When he looks back at it John isn’t really surprised.  He’s been drunk every night.  He has been pushing himself to work until his supervisors have to practically drag him off the site each day.  He hasn’t been eating.  His body can only take so much.

 

He passes out at work.  Well, it’s more like a brown out than a black out.  He can feel himself going down.  His vision is narrowing.  It feels like his heart is going to beat out of his chest, and he’s suddenly drenched in cold sweat.  There’s enough time to click off his drill before it slips through his fingers, but he stumbles afterwards.  He’s tripping over his own feet, and then he’s down.  He’s moving in slow motion. His colleagues are talking to him, but it sounds like they’re underwater.  He isn’t clear on what they’re saying, so he just repeats over and over that he’s fine.  It’s the scariest thing that has ever happened to him.  It feels like he’s dying.  He isn’t, of course, but your brain isn’t always cued into reality. 

 

They get him inside, away from the sun.  He thinks he walked, but he isn’t sure.  After a few minutes, and a great many glasses of water, John finally unwraps his fingers from where they’ve been gripping the chair.  He doesn’t look up.  John’s supervisor clears his throat, and John has to stretch his gaze like toffee from the floor to his boss’ face.  It’s a struggle.  John is a liability.  He knows, and god, he’s so ashamed. 

 

“I’m going to have to send you home, John.”

 

“Please—”

 

“No.  It’s clear that you had some sort of heat stroke.  Go home and rest, and be back Monday.  I’ll pay you for half the day.” 

 

“Alright,” he whispers. 

 

And it really is.  It’s so much more than he deserves.  Especially since he knows what heat stroke is like.  And he knows what a panic attack is.  And he knows what happened today, and what didn’t. 

 

“Alright.  Do you have someone who can pick you up?” 

 

John shakes his head.  He doesn’t. He doesn’t have anyone.  A sob threatens to well up, but he pushes it down. He just has to hold it together until he can get out of there.  He can keep his job.  He needs this job.

 

“Ok.  Somewhere you can go that’s not too far?”

 

John starts reply in the negative, but he thinks of Peter, and he wants. His flat is much more central.  And he doesn’t want to be alone.  That’s really all it is.  It’s not that he wants to see Peter.  He just doesn’t want to be alone.  With shaking fingers John dials the proffered phone.  He’s repeated the number so many times this week that he doesn’t need to think.  He just dials. 

 

It rings.

 

And rings. 

 

And rings. 

 

John takes a shuddering breath, preparing himself for the long lonely journey home.  And then the phone clicks. 

 

“Hello?”

 

“Peter?”

 

“Who—ah, John.  Right.  Nice of you to call finally.”

 

“I’ve been working.  I don’t _owe_ you anything.” 

 

“. . .You’re right.  And that’s true for me as well.  Thanks for the call, even if it is belated.  Goodbye, John.” 

 

Those words strike John in the gut.  And he knows, he just knows, that this is a turning point in his life.  This is when he makes a choice that will ruin him, or help him.  And he has to take a chance. 

 

“Wait! Please.”

 

“ . . .”

 

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs.  “I’m sorry, Peter. I didn’t, I was going to call.  I _have_ been working every day.  Actually, I’m at work now.  I kind of, well, I passed out.” 

 

“What?”

 

“The heat, maybe.  I don’t know.  Please can I see you?”

 

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea, John.” 

 

“Let me explain?” John knows he’s begging.  He winces.  His father would be so ashamed of him, but he wouldn’t have approved of this conversation in the first place.  He’s already so far gone.  “Please, Peter.  I should have called.  You’re right.”

 

“ . . . Fine.  Bring my shirt.”

 

John laughs a little hysterically. 

 

“That won’t be a problem.”

 

John hangs up and walks out into the midday sun.  It’s still hot.  He’s still shaking. Somehow he feels so much lighter than he has all week.  He wouldn’t have called.  He knows that.  He would never have called.  But he did.  And maybe things will change. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come back next time for a tiny bit of fluff, some more angst, and some orgasms!


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Peter come to a consensus.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I found this chapter excruciatingly difficult to write. I spent approximately two hours last night agonizing over the same ~75 words. I'm exhausted. But! I am really happy with this chapter. Many thanks to my friend, and occasional beta, Skippy. Everything I learned about foreskins I learned from you. You're fantastic. 
> 
> Enjoy!

John ends up taking a cab to Peter's. It doesn't save him _that_ much time, but after his burst of good will wears off about a block away from work he's feeling less than solid on his feet, and he really doesn't want to have another .. Episode. He's afraid to call it a panic attack. Afraid of what it means. Afraid to admit he's afraid, even. A real man isn't afraid of anything. A real man wouldn't have a panic attack at all. His father wouldn't be impressed. 

 

The cab ride is short, but he manages to work himself into a bit of a froth anyway. He stumbles of the cab, using the door to steady himself. It earns him a dirty look from the cabbie, but he's too relieved to care. He only has a minute of standing at the door, wracking his brain for Peter's apartment number before the door is wrenched open and he's manhandled inside. 

 

"I saw you fall," Peter gasps, checking for injuries. "Are you alright?" 

 

John blinks open his eyes, trying to focus on Peter's face. When did he close them? He's not certain, but Peter's warm, dry hands feel like a balm against his clammy skin. 

 

"John? John are you ok?" 

 

Peter sounds a little frantic, how silly, and John thinks he should probably tell his mouth to start working again so that he can let him know he's fine and to stop being hysterical. Peter laughs wildly at him. 

 

"You know you said that out loud, you berk." 

 

John blushes. "I kind of figured that out, yes. Sorry." 

 

Peter shrugs, and leads him into his apartment. He drops John off at the couch and heads into the kitchen. 

 

"Pining at the window, and waiting for me then?" 

 

"No. There's a window in the kitchen," Peter says as he returns to the living room food and tea on a tray. He's smiling, but it doesn't reach his eyes. John decides to ignore it for the time being in favor of digging into the food. It's just tinned soup and Welsh Rarebit, but he's been living off of mostly cereal, tea, and toast. It tastes amazing, and John tells that to Peter. 

 

Peter is watching him intently. He isn't smiling anymore. He looks sad and a little tender, and it makes the bread in his mouth turn to clay, and he can barely swallow. He puts down his fork, and swipes at his lips with a napkin. 

 

“Finished?”

 

John nods, and Peter takes the tray from him and heads into the kitchen.  John can hear him washing up, and he’s aching for him to just come back and get on with it.  He doesn’t.  John hears the kettle whistle, and he sighs, but finally, finally Peter comes back with two fresh cups of tea.  He sets one down in front of John, and settles himself on the couch. 

 

“Alright?”

 

“Alright.”

 

“You weren’t going to call. “

 

“No, I don’t think I was.” John waits for Peter’s response, but he’s just looking at him. They could play this waiting game forever, and skirt the issues, but John is tired and he can be honest.  Peter will just have to understand.  “Look, Peter, I’m not gay.” 

 

“Alright,” he sighs, “I am, though.”

 

“I like women, ok? I do.  I don’t like men.”

 

“But you do like me.”

 

John looks at him then.  Peter hadn’t said it like a question, but it had been a question all the same, and John can’t bear to lie.  He does like Peter.  He might even need him, or at least what he can give him.  He nearly passed out, and of the dozen or so people he knows in London, the only one he wanted to call was Peter.   

 

“Yeah.  Yes. I guess I do.”

 

“Good,” he breathes.

 

“But, look, Peter—I don’t do this kind of thing. I don’t know—“

 

“Christ, John, I’m not asking you to marry me.”

 

“Well then what are you asking for? I don’t know what I can give you.”

 

“For now I want to know if you’re ok.”

 

“Actually, yes?  I think I’m fine now.”

 

Peter stands up, reaching a hand out to John.

 

“Then I think you already know what I want for now. The rest we can figure out.”

 

John takes the proffered hand, and stands, crowding close to Peter.

 

“What do you mean?  How am I to know what you want if you don’t tell me?”

Peter flushes.  “I wrote—I told you? My note? Oh. . . Dammit you’re going to make me say it, aren’t you?”

 

John grins, showing teeth. 

 

Peter groans, and plasters himself against John.  He presses his face against John’s neck, and his breath is hot and wet against John’s skin.  He’s trembling, and John almost calls a stop to this whole thing because he might want to be in control, but he still wants a willing partner.  And for a brief second he can’t tell if Peter is trembling from fear, or for some other reason, but when his voice cracks low and raspy against his ear, he knows. 

 

“I want,” he pants, digging his fingers into John’s forearms. “You.  I want you.  Your cock.  I want you to press me into the bed and open me up, and slide your thick prick inside me. I want to feel you stretch me open.  Please?”

 

Peter’s voice breaks on the last word, and with it John’s control snaps.  He hauls Peter closer by the hips, and devours his mouth. The kiss is messy, and hard enough to bruise, and it’s glorious.  For the first time since John stumbled out of the door earlier this week john feels alive.  His blood is singing in his veins; his skin is on fire.  Peter has his arms around his neck, and he’s stroking the little curls of too long hair that are gracing the back of John’s skull, and each little caress of skin sends sparks down to the base of his spine. 

 

John growls, biting at Peter’s lips, and gripping his arse, lifts Peter off the ground.  He elicits a startled squeak, but then Peter melts against him.  John stumbles into the bedroom, dropping Peter in a heap onto the perfectly neat sheets, and following him down.  They tear at each other’s clothes, pausing only so that John can toe off his shoes when his trousers and pants get caught around his ankles. He steps out of the heap of clothes and shoes, and then he’s naked, cock jutting out from his body, looming over an equally naked, equally hard Peter.  He should be nervous, but he isn’t.  He’s desperate and excited and a little terrified that he’ll come before Peter does, but he isn’t afraid.  He stares down at Peter—his skin is a hot pink, his cock almost purple with want, and he’s pinching his nipples, hips thrusting unconsciously into the air. 

 

“God you’re gorgeous,” John blurts out. 

 

Peter licks his lips, staring up at John, and then slowly rolls onto his front, turning his back to John.  He gets up on his knees and reaches back to grasp hold of his arse cheeks and pull them apart and show off his tight pink hole. 

 

“And now?” he whispers. 

 

In a flash John is upon him, covering his prone form with his.  John sinks his teeth into the meat of Peter’s shoulder, drawing out a high pitched whimper of pain/pleasure that makes John’s cock twitch against Peter’s hole. 

 

“Please,” he begs. “Please, John? Lube, fingers, then fuck me. Please, I need you.”

 

John scrambles over to the bedside table and draws out the bottle of lube.  He spots a box of condoms in the drawer and pulls those out as well. He pops open the lube and coats his fingers.  He presses his index finger against Peter’s hole, and groans when the tip of his finger immediately slides in. 

 

“Is this right? Am I doing it right? I’ve never done this before.”

 

Peter looks over his shoulder at John. “I’ll tell you if you’re doing something wrong.  Just don’t go too fast and we’ll be fine.  I have done this before. It’s ok.”

 

John grits his teeth, and nods.  He pushes his finger inside Peter as slowly as he can, and tries to push the images of Peter on his knees for another man out of his head.  He’s feeling, well, jealous.  And he knows it’s not reasonable.  He knows that he’s been with plenty of people, and besides, what should it matter what Peter did or does with anyone else.  Peter isn’t his boyfriend, but he can’t quite quell the wave of possessiveness that breaks over him as the rim of Peter’s arsehole relaxes and John slips in a second finger alongside the first. 

 

Peter gasps, and bucks against John’s fingers.  He’s chanting under his breath.  He’s saying “please” and “come on” and “John John John”.  And John is so hard it hurts.  Peter feels so good around his fingers.  It’s different than a woman—he’s hotter and drier, but also tighter.  When John brushes against a little lump of flesh that must be Peter’s prostate, he gasps, the bones in his fingers grinding together as Peter clenches around him.  He pictures sliding into Peter, imagines his arse clenching so tightly around his cock, and he has to clench his own arse for fear of coming before it’s even begun. 

 

“Now? Is now alright?”

 

John knows he’s begging, and he couldn’t care less.  He would gladly get on his knees and bark like a dog if he could only please get his cock inside Peter’s tight hole this very second.  John holds his breath as Peter thrusts back against John’s fingers, his arse relaxing even more, and then he’s nodding. 

 

“Yes.  John.  Right now, John.  Come on. Come on.”

 

So John pulls his fingers out of Peter and fumbles for a condom.  His fingers are slick and it takes a few tries for him to open the box.  By the time he’s got a single condom in his hands he’s tearing up with frustration. 

 

“I am clean, you know,” Peter says. 

 

“Good. Yeah, but still?”

 

“Of course.”  Peter nods. 

 

Finally he does get the package open, though, and he pulls his foreskin down, then smoothes on the condom. 

 

John crawls closer to Peter, and, grasping his hip tight enough to bruise, he fits the head of his cock against Peter’s lube slick hole.  He starts to thrust in, but Peter gasps and it doesn’t sound like pleasure.

 

“Slow! Just a little slower.” John begins to panic and pull away, but Peter grasps and wrist. “Please. I want you.  Just go slower.” 

 

John nods.  He bites his lip hard and concentrates on watching his cock slide into Peter’s wide-stretched hole. Inch by inch John watches his cock disappear inside him.  He’s digging his fingers into Peter’s hips, and the taste of copper is on his tongue, and he’s shaking and shuddering with the effort it takes for him to not plow right into Peter and just take and take and take. 

 

It’s worth it.  It’s worth it to be able to watch his entire cock disappearing into Peter.  And it’s worth it because Peter is obviously enjoying himself.  He’s writhing and whimpering he’s snuck a hand down to stroke his cock.  John leans over and slaps Peter’s hand away. 

 

“Did I say you could touch yourself?” 

 

“No,” Peter gasps.  “I’m sorry.  You’re right.  I’m sorry. Please.”

 

John leans forward to snag a pillow from the top of the bed, burying himself deep in Peter in the process.  It startles a new round of pleading out of Peter, and John is barely hanging onto his control.  He slides the pillow under Peter’s hips. 

 

“No hands, Peter.  Just me and the pillow.  I’m going to fuck you now, and you aren’t allowed to put a hand on your cock.  Instead, since you clearly can’t control yourself, acting like a teenager—“

 

“I am a teenager,” Peter gasps out.  “I’m nineteen.” 

 

John growls.  “Not the point.  The point is… well the point is that I say no hands.  I want you to rut against the pillow while I fuck you. Got it?”

 

“Yes. Yes,” he agrees.  And he begins to rut against the pillow, moaning in relief. 

 

And John’s fragile hold on control is snapped.  He’s leaning over Peter, and he he’s plastered to the other man’s back.  The skin of his back is hot against John’s belly when he thrusts deep.  Peter tastes like salt, and soap, and he’s going to need another shower, John thinks distractedly.  And he imagines pinning Peter to the shower wall with his body and burying himself in his tight, slick arse. And God it’s such a hot picture.  John tilts his hips, trying to get deeper.  It feels like he’s trying to get under Peter’s skin, and when he thrusts hard one more time Peter stiffens.  John has one second to wonder if he did something wrong, and then Peter gasps. 

 

“John! I’m coming… fuck. Oh fuck,” Peter chokes out. 

 

And Peter is shuddering in John’s arms, grinding down hard against the pillow.  And John finally feels Peter clenching around his cock, and it’s like a sucker punch to the gut.  It knocks the breath out of him, and it rips his climax from him.  He lets out a shout, then presses his face to Peter’s neck and bites down to muffle his moans. 

 

Peter jerks in John’s arms, then collapses against the bed, letting John use his exhausted body.  And John does. He takes and he takes, fucking Peter’s sore hole until his cock starts to go soft, and ache with oversensitivity. 

 

Groaning, John grasps the base of the condom and pulls out, relishing Peter’s pained gasps.  He flops down on his side next to Peter, and tosses the condom into the bin by the bed. 

 

“That was amazing,” he rasps out, dragging his fingers down Peter’s spine and then the cleft of his arse. 

 

Peter moans in response, squirming as John’s fingers brush against his hole. 

 

“How does this feel?” he murmurs, sliding two fingers inside Peter. 

 

“Sore,” Peter whimpers.

 

John freezes.  “Should I stop?  I don’t want to actually hurt you.” 

 

“No, please.”

 

John starts again slowly.  He slides first two, then three fingers into Peter.  Then he curls them, stroking until he finds Peter’s prostate.  He presses down and Peter keens. 

 

“You like that, do you?”

 

“Yes,” Peter pants out.  “Yes. Yes.  More.” 

 

“Can you come again?”

 

“I don’t know—“

 

“Try.  I’m going to fuck your sloppy little hole with my fingers, and you’re going to use the pillow or your hands on your cock until you make a mess all over your sheets.  Got it?” 

 

Peter nods frantically, propping himself up on one arm and using the other to reach down and palm his cock.  He hisses when he wraps a hand around it, still sensitive, but he obediently begins to thrust into his hand.  In the end it only takes Peter a few minutes to come.  He’s rocking back onto John’s finger’s, whining with every slightly-too-hard press of John’s fingers against his prostate, and then pistoning forward into his own hand, the head of his cock brushing against the stiff sheets.  John watches as Peter’s thrusts become more and more erratic—he’s jerking back and forth and the moans and whimpers and groans have all merged into one long guttural cry. 

 

John whispers, “Come for me, Peter.  I want to see it.” 

 

Peter thrusts into his hand twice more, and then he is coming.  He’s breaking apart at the seams—back bowed, and shaking, he has tears running down his face, and the noises he’s making are inhuman.  John continues to finger him through his orgasm until his whines turn pained, and then he yanks his hand back, wraps his still slick fingers around his own cock, and pulls once, twice, four times, and then he’s coming too, spilling all over the milky white buttocks of the man next to him. 

 

John rolls onto his back, and stares up at the ceiling.  “Bloody hell,” he pants out, trying to catch his breath.  “Fuck, that was fantastic.” 

 

“Mm yes.”  Peter slides over and curls up with his head on John’s chest, wrapping a still shaky arm around his torso.  “Pillow’s covered in come. Have to use you as my pillow.” 

 

“Mm, alright.” 

 

John wraps his arms around Peter, runs his fingers through his sweat slick hair.  He doesn’t wonder what it means.  He doesn’t question what or who he is or what he’s doing.  He just closes his eyes, and slips off to sleep. 

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The... mid-afternoon after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am finally finished with this chapter! Success! I managed to clock over fifty hours of work this week, even though Monday was a holiday, and I wasn't sure I would get this out today. But here it is! I hope you enjoy it.

It’s too hot.  Almost oppressively hot.  John feels wrung out, melted almost.  His muscles feel overworked, almost like jelly. But it’s a good satisfying ache.  Slowly he comes to.  He has a warm weight on top of him, covering him. It should be oppressive, but it isn’t. _Peter_ he thinks, and he smiles.  Whatever this is, it’s clearly good for him, and John has had little enough good in his life, that he can recognize when to walk away from something and when to grasp it with both hands lest it be wrenched from him by force.  He resolves to let this, this thing, just happen.  This friendship, partnership, sex partner, thing, doesn’t need to be anything but what it is.  But now that he’s had a real taste, now that he knows what it’s like to live without when he could live with?  Well, he doesn’t know that he wants to, and he’s not one to look a gift horse in the mouth. 

 

He looks down at the silky black curls brushing his chest, and sighs. It's a lot easier than it should be, he thinks. It feels more natural than his father ever said it was. 

 

Peter stirs, burrowing into John's chest. He feels those hot lips press into his skin, and his cock jumps. It's ridiculous, really.  He's twenty years old, yes, but an innocent bit of a cuddle, and a careless caress of lips shouldn't arouse him so. John is beginning to wonder just what the hell is wrong with him, and then the lips move, sliding across his sternum, and he’s quite certain he doesn’t care if there _is_ something wrong with him. Peter lifts his head and just breathes. Heat is rolling off him in waves, and his breath is no different. 

 

"Hi," he murmurs, lips brushing a heretofore uninterested nipple. 

 

"Hey, Peter," John croaks. "Sleep well?"

 

Peter just hums, and closes his mouth around John's nipple. He jerks. It's not that he's never had then touched before, but women don't seem particularly interested in them, and his own brief forays into the area were largely uninteresting. This, this is different. This is tight and aching and uncomfortable. He can feel himself squirming, but he's not sure if he's trying to get closer or further away. And then Peter nips at the stiff and sensitive nipple and it’s too much. 

 

"Fuck, Peter." 

 

"Mm?" Peter lifts his head, pulling John's nipple between his teeth. He grins up at John, lips red and wet. 

 

"I want your mouth on me," John growls, gripping Peter by the hair and shoving his face into John's sheet covered cock. 

 

"Yes, yes." 

 

Peter scrambles to untuck the sheet, and then pauses. 

 

"Come on." 

 

"Nope!" Peter hops off the bed. "You're all covered in dried lube and cum and ugh. I'm getting a flannel." 

 

"Fine," John shouts at Peter's retreating figure. "But I'm timing you! One delayed orgasm for each minute you're gone." 

 

Peter laughs but he does hurry back. 

 

"Sixty-eight seconds. I think we will have to round up to two." 

 

Peter groans, but he cleans them both up and leans down, pulling back John's foreskin, and laves the head of his cock. 

 

"No teasing," John huffs out, settling his hand back in Peter's hair, guiding Peter down on his cock until his face is brushing John's belly. 

 

It's hot and wet, but it's the image, more than anything that makes John thrust up, wanting to bury his cock deeper in Peter's throat. And then Peter jerks away, coughing. 

 

"Fuck, fuck I'm sorry." 

 

Peter shakes his head at John, but he still can't catch his breath. 

 

"I'm sorry. I won't do that again." 

 

"No," Peter croaks out between coughs. "I liked it. I just wasn't ready. Again." 

 

"Peter... I don't know--" 

 

Peter clambers up John's body, pressing his forehead against John's. 

 

"Please. I want you to. Please fuck my face, John." 

 

John growls, hauling Peter off of him and dumping him on the carpet by the bed. He sits up and swings his legs over the side, regarding the wild thing staring up at him through messy curls.  He rests his hands on his thighs and quirks an eyebrow. 

 

"I'm wait--" 

 

And that's all John manages to get out before Peter is on him, sucking greedily on his cock. He bites off the word with a groan, and grasps Peter's head with both hands. He tries to go slow, lifting his hips only a bit more with each thrust, but Peter is taking it so well. His spit is dripping down his chin, down John's cock, and he's moaning. And that is what gets John--how desperate Peter is to please, how much he enjoys taking John's cock. John can see that Peter's cock is stiff, and leaking, jutting out obscenely, but Peter is ignoring it in favor of caressing John's thighs while John takes his mouth. 

 

"God you look so good like that. You love this, don't you? Love taking my cock." 

 

Peter is murmuring an assent around a mouthful of John's prick but John isn't listening—Peter's hands have moved from his inner thighs to his balls. He wraps his fingers around them, tugging lightly, and John feels himself shudder, abs clenching. 

 

"Fuck, fuck I'm gonna come," John gasps.

 

And then Peter's fingers are reaching out and rubbing a spot behind John's bollocks, and John tips over the edge. Hips leaving the bed, he thrusts deep into Peter's mouth.  He’s jabbering something, chanting maybe.  Peter’s name, and yes, and fuck, and he’s coming down Peter’s throat, eyes wide as Peter swallows him down.

 

John collapses back against the bed.

 

“God you’re good.”

 

“Thanks. I’m glad you think so.” 

 

John can hear the pride in Peter’s voice, and it makes him grin.  He sighs happily, stretching to get the tension out of his muscles.  And then he hears a quiet moan from the floor.  John sits up. 

 

“What are you doing?”

 

“I—I uh…”

 

“Did I say you could touch yourself?”

 

“…”

 

“Get up here.”

 

Peter climbs gingerly onto the bed, and John pounces.  He bowls him over onto his back and straddles his hips. 

 

“Did you ever think I might prefer to do that?”  John purrs, punctuating the question with a hard bite of Peter’s neck. 

 

“I didn’t.   Well, I didn’t think—“

 

John pins Peter’s hands above his head, pressing against him.  And he can feel that Peter is desperate. Peter’s cock is wet, and his hips keep twitching upwards.  He’s staring up at John glassy-eyed, and desperate. 

 

“Exactly, you didn’t think.” John rolls his hips, rubbing his softening cock against Peter’s scalding skin.  “I guess I have to do the thinking for you.” 

 

“Yes, please. Please.”

 

John bites his lip, taking in the gorgeous sight before him, and he knows, knows just what to do.  He climbs off of Peter, and sits next to him. 

 

“On second thought, if you really want to get yourself off I suppose you can. “

 

Peter sighs gratefully, reaching for his cock. 

 

“However,” John continues. “That’s the only other orgasm you’ll get for the day.  And I intend to fuck you later.  So it seems you have a choice.  Play with yourself now, and go unfulfilled later, or wait until later, and I’ll finger you and fuck you until you come as many times as you can manage.  I’ll fuck you so hard, so good, you’ll bloody well see God.  ”

 

Peter whimpers. 

 

“Why,” he whispers. 

 

“Because I like to see you desperate like this.”

 

“…Fine.”

 

“Yes?”

 

“Yes, alright. I’ll wait.”

 

John crows with pleasure, falling on Peter to pepper him with wet, openmouthed kisses. 

“Fuck, John,” he moans.  “Stop, stop or I might come anyway.”

 

John pulls back sheepishly. 

 

“Dinner then?”

 

“Ugh.  Yes.  Just give me a minute to get myself calmed down. “

 

“Alright.  But don’t take too long, I’m starving!” 

 

John starts for the door to the bathroom, and then stops, turning back to survey Peter’s prone form.  He’s particularly lovely to look at when he’s aching for it, John thinks.  And before he can think too hard, before he can talk himself out of it, he leans over and presses his lips to the head of Peter’s cock.  It’s soft, softer than he’d expected, and hotter too. Peter squirms under his touch.   John straightens up.

 

“Come on now you dosser!” 

 

“You’re not helping,” Peter gripes, but he’s smiling at John like hi hung the moon.  

 

John grins, and practically skips off to the shower.  He’s not looking this gift horse in the mouth again.  He’s having too much fun, and he can’t be arsed to.  What will be, will be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry to leave you hanging! Not really. I'm about as sorry to leave you hanging as John was to leave Peter waiting! :P


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is completely in control. Yup. Totally.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is not at all the chapter I intended to write, but I'm glad I did. Someday we may even progress the story along to the next day. Eventually. Maybe. But for now, enjoy! 
> 
> But first, I want to thank you guys for reading this. For liking, and commenting and generally being so excited to get more each time. Every time I get a comment it absolutely makes my day. I'm overwhelmed by the fact that you guys are sticking with me as I write this, and it really helps motivate me to make sure I do get something finished as often as I can. So seriously. Thank you, more than I can even say. 
> 
> Now on to the porn and feelings!

It’s a good day. A good night? Afternoon.  All of the above.  He feels looser.  And maybe it’s the sex, or maybe it’s the fact that he’s made his decisions, but he doesn’t feel that tightness in his chest.  Doesn’t feel that ache behind his eyes, the constant beginnings of a migraine. 

 

John gets in the shower, and only moments later is joined by a visibly frustrated Peter.  And this is new.  John’s never showered with anyone before. Well, that’s not strictly true—he’s showered with the rugby team, but that was all dirty jokes and boasting and towel snapping and trying, trying, trying not to stare at his teammates’ muscled thighs and not entirely soft pricks, adrenaline is a wonderful, terrible thing.  But that was nothing like this.  That was a quiet form of torture for John.  But this? This showering with a lover? Is brilliant.  The shower is small, and the heat of the water is filling it with steam.  Before long they’re both wet, and as they maneuver around each other, trying to scrub the come and sweat from their skin, they’re touching. 

 

For John it’s just a pleasant tease. Hot skin sliding against his own.  Carelessly placed hands steadying one another as they move.   It’s a dance, and John is leading, and Peter is just hanging on for the ride.  Peter is still desperate to come, and he can’t seem to stop himself from arching into every caress. And that makes John bold.  He’s pushing Peter’s back against the wall, and pressing against him as he heads for the shampoo.  And Peter has clearly had enough of the tease.  Knuckles against sensitive thighs, and fingers on ticklish sides, or palms, steady against your back—those are one thing—but to have John’s well-muscled torso manhandling him against a wall, and pressing against his aching cock, is entirely another. 

 

Peter whimpers, and reaches out to pull John harder against him. He’s well beyond caring.  That much is clear to John.  He slides his hands along John’s hips, and he’s gripping John’s arse, and his fingers are slipping between John’s arse cheeks and brushing his hole, and John is terrified.  Before he can even make a decision to do anything, he’s whipping Peter around, yanking his arm up behind his back, and pinning him face first into the wall. 

 

John’s skin is hot and prickly. His fingers are itching where they’re wrapped around Peter’s wrist and hip, and his breath is so loud in his own ears that it takes a moment to register that Peter is saying something.  John is frustrated and embarrassed and angry, and poor Peter, fuck.  He’ll have to apologize, except— Peter doesn’t sound upset. 

 

He’s saying: “Please, oh please John.” 

 

And he’s thrusting against the wall.  And John breathes a sigh of relief, and rests his forehead against Peter’s back.  He hems and haws, making considering little noises, as he tries to get his breathing under control.  And Peter is too distracted to feel John’s panting breaths against his shoulder.  And the water is beating down on them, and even John can pretend not to feel the tears sliding down his face. 

 

And eventually he manages to get his breathing back under control.  And he knows his voice won’t shake any longer.  And the tears, there were never any tears he tells himself, have dried up. 

 

“Nope! I don’t think so.  You’ve got to wait, Peter.” 

 

John pulls away, and lands a solid smack to Peter’s arse. Watching, fascinated, as it propels Peter forward, his cock head brushing against the tiled wall.  Peter whines, and thrusts again. 

 

“Now, now.  None of that.” 

 

John smack’s Peter’s other buttock, and this one leaves a nice pink handprint behind.  But it would look so much lovelier if it were darker.  John tries to a third, the blow coming in squarely against Peter’s thigh.  Peter yelps. And John does it again.  And the resulting color is so lush, that he has to do it again. 

 

“Does it hurt?” whispers John, as he hits Peter right at the crease between thigh and arse. 

 

“Yes. Yes!”  Peter can barely get out the words between whimpers. 

 

“And it feels good?” John pinches the reddened skin of Peter’s arse, and he tries to pull away, tries to grind his cock into the wall, and his confused gasps of pain and pleasure wash everything else away.  ‘

 

“Please.  Please, John.  I need. I need.” 

 

John growls.  “Answer my question.”  He digs his nails into Peter’s purpling skin.  They’re short, and blunt, but they seem to be doing the trick because Peter’s hands are scrabbling uselessly at the wet tile, and he’s babbling.  He’s nearly incoherent from the pain or the pleasure or both, and John wants to know.  John needs to know how it feels. 

 

Finally Peter forces out a few words. 

 

“Good, yes.  Hurts.  Please.  I’m going to come.”

 

“No you’re not,” John chuckles carelessly, unclenching his hands, and scraping his nails against the sensitive skin.

 

“I am! I am! Please, John. I am.”

 

“Then stop thrusting.” 

 

But Peter doesn’t seem to be able to.  He’s trembling with the effort to stay still, and that only furthers the problem.  His cock is pressed against the shower wall, and with every abortive thrust of his hips his cock is rubbing against the ridges at the edges of the tiles.  And the edges are digging in—pressing hard against his frenulum.  He’s leaking all over the wall now, but he can’t seem to stop.   

 

“Please,” he whispers. 

 

“Control yourself,” John bites out, punctuating the order with a hard flurry of smacks against the already forming bruises. 

 

And Peter is coming.  John watches in awe as each of his smacks seems to elicit the desperate whining noise he’s growing to love.  Peter’s hips are thrown forward, and his head is thrown back, and his eyes are clenched tight, and his mouth is moving, but there are no words escaping.  No words, just hot, panting breaths, and whining little moans.  Peter’s come is dripping down the wall, and splattered on his own chest, and still John keeps hitting him. And there’s still more.  But finally he slows down. 

 

Peter is taking great shuddering breaths.  Huge gulps of air.  And he’s shivering.  And John watches on in horror as the panting turns back to whimpering, but now the whimpers aren’t tinged with pleasure, they’re pure pain.  And Peter’s face is turning red and blotchy, and John can’t be sure with the water streaming down, but he thinks he sees tears. 

 

“Peter?  What’s the matter? Why—“ 

 

And then Peter is launching himself at John, burying his face in John’s chest, and clutching at him helplessly.  And John doesn’t know how this could turn so terribly wrong.  He wraps his arms gingerly around the other man.

 

“I thought.  I thought you liked that?  What did I do wrong?” 

 

John feels miserable.  He’d hit Peter, really hit him. And liked the bruises and the whimpers and the pain.  And he thought Peter had enjoyed it too. He thought— But he must have been too wrapped up in himself, yet again.  Just like now.  Because John recognizes that he’s standing, holding an obviously upset Peter, and Peter is murmuring against his chest, and instead of listening to his lover, John is chiding himself.  John you self-centered arse, get yourself together.  He leans his head down, and tries to hear what Peter is saying, but it’s impossible to tell over the water and the sniffles and how Peter’s face is mashed against John’s chest. 

 

“Shh.  It’s ok.  Just tell me what’s wrong.”

 

Peter nods against him, and pulls away just far enough to choke out his self-recriminations. 

 

“I couldn’t control myself.  You told me not to come.  But it was so good.  And I wanted, and I didn’t listen.”

 

John freezes, shocked. 

 

“But—Wait.  That’s why you’re upset?” 

 

Peter nods, and John sighs, gathering Peter up, and holding him properly. 

 

“That’s on me, Peter.  You told me you couldn’t stop.  And I didn’t care.  I wanted to keep doing it.  I liked it.”  John presses a kiss to Peter’s cheek, and whispers. “It was amazing.  You, you were amazing. I didn’t want to stop.  I didn’t want you to stop either.  I should have told you.” 

 

“Really?” 

 

“Really.” 

 

Peter flashes John a watery smile.  And if John’s smile in return is soft, and affectionate, neither of them mentions it.  And if John’s hands are gentle as they clean Peter off, and lead him from the shower, neither of them mentions it.  And if John presses butterfly light kisses against Peter’s bruised and abused bottom before he coats it in arnica cream, neither of them mentions it.  And if John clings to Peter when he’s exhausted, and overwhelmed, nestled in John’s lap, still damp from the shower, neither of them mentions it. 

 

Nor the kisses John presses against Peter’s sleep-softened brow.

 

Nor the hot surge of… something, which wells up inside him, filling him, closing his throat. 

 

But it doesn’t mean it doesn’t happen.  It doesn’t mean the something isn’t real. 


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The longest day in the history of forever ends. Or maybe something is just beginning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are going to move a little bit faster from here on out. So it will no longer take 10,000 words to get through.. approximately one day. So if you're here for the Johnlock, well actually no, you'll still have to wait a while for that, but we're actually going to start moving closer. 
> 
> I mentioned this in the comments, but I wanted to say it here as well--Sherlock has innumerable stories written about his history, but John has the occasional Sholto story, and for the most part that's it. I think John deserves some love too! And I really wanted to explore his backstory with this fic. My intention is to follow him to the modern day, and to spend some time exploring canon experiences from this John's perspective, but I think it's important to explain why he is the way he is, and I don't want to give his story short shrift in favor of jumping right to Johnlock. 
> 
> So, that said, I hope you enjoy. I wasn't looking forward to working my way through this chapter, but I ended up with something I'm quite happy with. 
> 
> As always, let me know what you think. And let me know if you have any questions or see any errors. I want this to be the best that it can be, and that really starts and ends with you guys.

When John thinks about it, this is where he says everything changed.  There was before and there was after, and the after couldn’t be ignored or forgotten.  He’s wrong, of course, none of it could be forgotten once he’d started.  And maybe it started in that apartment on a different night.  Or a club the year before.  Or a locker room during sixth form, when he couldn’t keep his eyes off of his best friend as he toweled off.  Or maybe it started at 15 when he woke up from his very first wet dream about a boy.  Maybe it started when he was born.  There are too many before and after’s, and if he were ever honest with himself, he’d admit that they all matter. 

 

But he’s right, this one does matter.  It matters that John wraps his arms around Peter and watches him sleep.  That he briefly considers easing him out of his lap, and stealing away, and then doesn’t.  Because they’d decided to just let things happen, and John thought that meant that they would sleep together, and maybe eat together, or watch movies.  He didn’t think it would involve affection.  They’re not dating, of course, because John could never date a man, but it’s a lot closer than he’d ever intended to get.  And so it matters that he chooses to stay.  It matters that he chooses to care.

 

Eventually there are others.  There are casual flings.  There are almost loves.  There are people like Sholto, who are closer to being a lover than anyone before.   And then one day there’s Sherlock.  Sherlock who is both more and less than all of the others.  Sherlock who John loves.  Who John cannot live without.  Who John has never kissed. Never held. 

 

Yes, eventually there are others, but first there is Peter.  There is Peter and John, and they’re young and things feel so big inside them.  They’re young, and so every joy, every sorrow is magnified a thousand fold, until they’re drowning in wave after wave of feelings.  And that’s how things happen sometimes when you’re very young, and not yet so jaded.  Without all the armor of lost loves it is easy to feel.  A shell doesn’t just keep things out, it keeps things in.  And so without that shell there is John.  And there is Peter.  And Peter is sleeping, and John is watching. And everything changes. 

 

The bedroom is fuzzy in the fading light of a warm summer evening.  Peter dozes for a half hour or so, and when he wakes, he tilts his head up to look at John, and his smile is soft, and satisfied, and John smiles back, chest aching.  They don’t mention any of it.  Instead, they get up, finally put on some trousers, and search for some food. 

 

“We could go out for dinner?” Peter asks. 

 

And John looks at Peter, and wants to keep touching him.  He wants to hold him again.  To press kisses, and bruises into his skin.  And he doesn’t want anyone else to see. They might get the wrong idea. 

 

“How about a takeaway?” 

 

And Peter agrees. 

 

It’s a not like a date, John thinks, when they’re firmly ensconced on the sofa with Styrofoam containers of curry, and an action movie on television.  It’s just two mates.  Two mates hanging out on a quiet Saturday night.  Never mind that one or the other of them muted the television ages ago, and neither of them is actually sure what’s playing.  It’s all very casual—Peter is offering John bites of his Chana Masala and ribbing him about eating meat, how unhealthy it is, how inhumane. Never mind that John is hanging onto his every word.  Never mind that Peter is offering bites of rice and chick peas with his fingers.  And that John is eating every bite, teeth scraping along the pads of Peter’s fingers, and then tongue flicking out to lick up every little bit of sauce.  He’s chasing every last morsel of spice, sucking the tips of Peter’s fingers into his mouth, and then following that up with long slow licks to each of his fingers, tongue dipping between them to taste the sensitive skin where finger meets palm. 

 

It’s not a date when Peter sighs, warm and sated, and growing hotter by the minute.  Their food is abandoned on the coffee table, and John bowls Peter over onto his back.  And he is tasting even more sensitive spots.  John sucks bruises into the delicate skin of Peter’s jaw. And when John mouths at the older bruises, cock throbbing at the sight, at how hot they are against his lips, Peter begins to beg. 

 

He doesn’t start out with words.  At first he just gasps and arches, fingers tightening in John’s shirt.  At first he just tries and tries to squirm closer, to pull John against him. 

 

“Shh,” John whispers. “Shhh.  I’ll take care of you.  I promise.” 

 

And John finds that he means it.  And it feels like a thank you, for when Peter took care of him, only twelve hours or so before.  And it feels like an apology for Peter’s tears.  And an apology for all the things John cannot, will not give him.  Because it isn’t a date.  And he can’t care for him, not really.  He can’t and he doesn’t.  But for now, he can care about him.  He can take care of him.  And that much, at least, John does. 

 

John kisses him, unbuttoning Peter’s shirt, and trousers.  The trousers come off with his pants, but the shirt stays on.  And John proceeds to take him apart piece by piece. 

 

He presses kisses against Peter’s chest, biting at his nipples.  Not to hurt though, not hard.  No, he nibbles on them.  Rolls them around between his teeth.  Sucks on them.  Until they’re sore and hot and red, and Peter is gasping and incoherent.  And he’s clutching at John, thrusting his hard cock against John’s still clothed belly.  So John gently pulls Peter’s fingers away, and presses his hands together above his head. He hovers over Peter’s squirming body, raking his nails down Peter’s chest, and savoring the way Peter keens when his fingernails catch on his swollen nipples. And Peter’s breath is sobbing out of him, nearly choking.  And so John caresses away the hurts with gentle fingers, calming Peter like a skittish horse. 

 

And when the sobs have leveled out into little gasping breaths, John leans over to whisper against his skin.  “What do you want?” 

 

“I don’t…I don’t know. Please?”

 

“Do you want me to choose?”

 

And Peter shudders, and then relaxes into the cushions.

 

“Yes.  Please.  You choose.” 

 

“Any preferences?” 

 

“Well, I’d like to be allowed to come this time.”

 

John laughs.  “Oh, don’t worry.  You’re allowed to come as many times as you want.  I’ll make you come so many times you’ll be sick of it.”

 

“Not bloody likely!”

 

John chuckles, and clambers off of him.  Peter makes to sit up and follow, but John presses him back against the cushions. 

 

“Stay here.” 

 

And so he does. 

 

And in a moment John comes back to the sofa with lube and condoms and the oft dreamed about handcuffs.  John handcuffs Peter’s hands together first. 

 

“Nothing to handcuff me to out here, silly!” 

 

“Oh shush! I like the way they look!  Don’t make fun of me!”

 

And John follows up his order with a light slap.  He considers Peter’s arse, his thighs, his face—the last one has him digging his nails into his palms, desperate, and more than a little frightened by how much the idea arouses him.  And so he settles for a light slap, barely more than a clap, to the base of Peter’s cock.  John expects griping, maybe an annoyed purse of lips.  What he gets is a strangled gasp.  What he gets is Peter holding himself rigidly, balls drawn up, and cock dripping precome all over Peter’s belly.  What he gets is unexpected, but hardly unwelcome.  John is flexible.  John can go with the flow.  At least in this. 

 

“You like that.” 

 

Peter nods pitifully.

 

“Do you think you could come like that?”

 

Peter whimpers, biting his lip, but he jerks his head in a curt nod. 

 

“That way first, then.” 

And John proceeds to land a stinging blow to Peter’s balls.  And then his cock again.  First the base, and then the tip.  And Peter is gasping for air like a fish out of water, and John is entranced.  And he lands one more smack where he started, and Peter is gaping, and arching and coming.  And John watches, fascinated, as Peter’s cock jumps and throbs, and visibly pumps out more and more come. 

 

“Fuck that’s incredible,” he groans, jumping to his feet and pulling off his clothing. 

 

Peter’s head lolls to the side, watching John distractedly. 

 

“Fuck me now?”

 

John shakes his head.  “Not yet.  One more thing first.” 

 

And John is back on the couch, slicking up his fingers and opening Peter up.  Peter is still a little loose from earlier.  And he’s soft, and relaxed in the wake of his orgasm, and he spreads his legs eagerly for John, tilting his pelvis up so that John and easily slide first one, and then another finger, into Peter.  John concentrates on opening him up, first.  His own cock is hard and dripping precome, and Peter is so deliciously open like this.  And he’s right there for the taking, but John has a plan.  He’s going to make this perfect for Peter.  He’s going to make Peter come first.  Well, come again, first. 

 

And so as soon as Peter’s arsehole is slippery, and gaping, and taking three, then four of John’s fingers easily, John curls them up inside Peter, and presses them against Peter’s prostate. 

 

Peter has already come, and he’s sensitive.  And it hurts.  And feels good.  And it’s so much, and so full that he can barely breathe.  And he’s begging John to stop, and for more in quick succession.  And finally he decides on John’s cock.  And so he asks for it.  And John refuses. 

 

“Please, John. Please.  I need your cock inside me.  I need it. I need—“ 

 

And John has to stop him because he’s only human.  He’s not made of stone. 

 

“Come for me, and then you can have my cock.” 

 

“I can’t!” he wails.  But he’s already close.  And when John wraps his free hand around Peter’s cock it only takes a few rough pulls before Peter is yelping, trying to writhe away from John, but he’s caught between two points of contact, and it only presses John’s fingers harder into his prostate. 

 

Peter is sure he’s crying.  His breath is coming in big gasping sobs, and he can feel tears forming in his eyes again.  John sees and freezes. 

 

“Should I stop?” 

 

“No.  Please.”

“Are you sure? I don’t… Peter you’re crying.” 

 

“I am not.  I just need more. I just need—“ 

 

But John is already scrambling for a condom.  He pulls his fingers quickly out of Peter, making him wince. But he has the condom over his cock, and he’s slicked himself up with lube, and he’s holding Peter’s hips up off the couch, the tip of his cock pressed against Peter’s gaping hole. 

 

“Are you sure?” 

 

Peter rolls his eyes, looping his handcuffed arms around John’s neck. 

 

“Fuck me now.” 

 

John laughs. “Yes, sir.” 

 

And he does.  John fucks him hard, but gentle.  He’s supporting Peter’s back with his hands, and Peter is hanging onto him.  And his thrusts are long, and deep.  And Peter swears he can feel John’s cock in the back of his throat.  And it hurts.  It mostly hurts because he’s come twice, and he’s so sensitive.  And John keeps nailing his prostate, over and over.  And he really is crying because it hurts and it feels good.  And he comes twice more in those five minutes or so when John is fucking him so hard he can almost taste it.  The first time John stops, and watches, gritting his teeth so as not to follow Peter over the edge.  The second time Peter grips John’s neck as best as he can with the handcuffs in the way, and he whimpers John’s name over and over under his breath, and John can’t listen.  John can’t bear to hear the wonder in Peter’s voice.  So he kisses him to drown out the whispers, and he fucks him so hard he forgets his own name for a second because all he can feel is Peter’s body rigid in his arms, Peter’s arse tight around his cock. 

 

And when the roar of orgasm fades, John pulls out gently, and cleans up the condom and lube and dinner, and eventually Peter.  And Peter just watches, contented and lazy, and boneless on the couch. 

 

They stumble to bed.  And they sleep.  They don’t cuddle because it wasn’t a date.  And they don’t kiss and whisper sweet nothings.  And John pretends he doesn’t press the backs of his fingers against Peter’s neck so that he can touch him somewhere as they sleep.  And Peter pretends not to notice. 


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes you stumble on something beautiful. How long it lasts for is up to you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! I know this chapter is later than usual. It was giving me a lot of trouble, and I've had even less time to write. That said, things are slowing down in a couple of weeks, and I should be back on track soon. 
> 
> I am trying to move forward in the story, and this chapter is a bit different. So, let me know what you think. I hope I've done it justice, and not given anything short shrift.

It's easy after that. It's like something was broken, and somehow, somehow they fixed it. Or maybe their mutual decision to let things just be, to let things, to let “them”, be undefined. It's good. All the easy, simple kinds of good that you associate with late summer. They're drifting as if in a dream. They couldn't answer the question "how did I get here?" If they wanted to. But they don't want to. They don't need to. No thinking is required.

 

John thinks that it’s mostly so easy because they’re friends.  Peter is the kind of boy that John would be friends with even without the sex. The sex is pretty fucking brilliant yes, but it isn’t only that.  It’s that they want to be in each other’s pockets.  They just work well together.  John hasn’t clicked so quickly with someone since he met a boy his first day of secondary school, and got to spend two blissful years spending every free minute playing football and rugby and exploring.  And when George moved away John thought he might die.  He wouldn’t go outside to play for nearly the entire summer.  But he survived, and trudged along somehow.  And then he met Peter.

 

Peter is clever, which John can't exactly say of all of his mates--some of his rugby mates are as dumb as a box of rocks--but all of his best mates are pretty clever. And Peter is some kind of computer genius. John doesn't even have an email address or a cell phone and Peter builds computers. Quite possibly he builds the brains of the computers, too, but he isn't entirely certain. Either way, he's clever, and John likes that. And he likes that Peter will watch Bond movies with him, even if he doesn't like how Peter fawns over Roger Moore and Pierce Brosnan. They're attractive, yes, obviously they're handsome men, but John isn't interested. John doesn't like that Peter is interested. Still he watches them with him. And he plays Nintendo with him. And curls up on the couch to read with him, their legs tangled together, John unconsciously stroking the bruises and teeth marks that are almost always painting his skin. 

 

They're mates. 

 

John likes him. John likes all his mates. 

 

And the sex, well the sex is stunning. It was good to begin with, and it only gets better. Because Peter always has new ideas. New things he wants to try. And he begs so prettily. And he takes John's cock like he was made for it. And the sounds he makes--when John finally sinks his cock deep inside Peter's body--John dreams of those sounds.  He loves the breathy little gasps, the deep groans that sound so right falling from Peter’s lips, the way he whispers John's name like a prayer far more holy than anything John ever heard in the churches of his youth. His favorite though, his absolute favorite is the relieved sigh Peter always lets out when John is fully seated inside him. He sighs like he's been waiting, aching for John. Like he was in pain without John inside him, and it's the first relief he's felt all day.  John loves that sigh.  John likes to taste that sigh, and it is oh so sweet on his tongue. 

 

There's a lot of that noise. There's a lot of sex in general. And it's filthy and messy and just how John likes it. Sometimes it's a quick wank or a blowjob or the delicious drag of their cocks against each other, trapped between their bellies and helped along by what feels like gallons of lube. And other times it's slow and soft and almost sweet. Not like with a woman, John thinks, but almost. The best times are the other times—the weekend afternoons when they have nowhere to be, and they have hours to play. They have time for John to learn how to use his hands, his belt, a ruler, to hurt Peter. To bruise Peter. To make him come in a startling confusion of pain and pleasure. 

 

They have time for John to truss Peter up in a complicated array of ropes and cuffs until he's caught and straining and John can tease him and tease him until he pleads for mercy. Sometimes John gives it to him, and Peter cries with relief. Sometimes he doesn't, and they both spend the next day achingly hard in their trousers, and desperate to get back home and back into bed. Home, John always has to remind himself, is the dusty apartment across the city with the constantly full answering machine, and a dwindling supply of John's things. 

 

Peter tells him to just move in already. He's young and foolish and unafraid. John tells him that he can't. That his apartment is closer to school. That he wants to keep a place for his sister to visit if she wants to. That he already signed a lease. John doesn't tell him that friends don't live together in a one bedroom apartment. John doesn't tell him how afraid he is. 

 

And that is the summer.  They work, and they sleep, and they sweat, and they fuck.  And in between they learn each other.  They wheedle their way into each other’s lives, and then take over.  And John doesn’t mind.  John doesn’t have a lot of friends.  And he doesn’t have any that he likes half so much as he likes Peter.  So they watch movies, and play video games, and cook, and read.  And sometimes, just every once in a while John lets Peter drag him out to a bar.  John won’t admit it, but he loves going out with Peter.  He loves to watch the other men eye him up.  He loves to track their eyes—from arse to hips to shoulders to the vivid red marks John never fails to leave on Peter’s fair skin before they go out.  They’re not in a relationship, exactly, but John doesn’t want Peter sleeping with anyone else.  It’s safer, after all.  It’s just pragmatism on his part. 

 

John is happy.  His summer, a summer that had started so dismally, has turned out to be one of the best he’s ever had.  And in those halcyon days of late August, John wishes, just a little bit, that things could be that way always.  That things could be easy, and beautiful, and fun.  But things never stay that way for long. 

 

They have two months before things change.  Or at least before things start to change.  It isn’t the end, but things aren’t the same.  September creeps in warm, and bright, bringing with it fall leaves, and a return to Uni for John.  A final return to Uni. 

 

They aren’t different together.  John still likes Peter.  John wants to spend more time with him, but by the time November rolls around they’re only seeing each other three days out of seven, and John is always tired. 

 

Peter is sad, but sympathetic—of course he is. 

 

They talk about it, actually.  It isn’t something John likes to do, but Peter is good at talking.  Almost as good as he is at not talking.  So when John is nearly crying, next to breaking from the stress one Sunday night, Peter coaxes him into opening up.  And they’re lying in bed, sweaty and sated, and John can’t stop thinking about the exam he has on Tuesday.  And so he tells Peter.  He tells him about his family.  About his father, and uncles and cousins.  He tells him how badly he wants to do something good, how desperate he is to have a different life than his parents.  He tells him how much he needs for his grades to be exemplary.  And Peter tells him that he understands.  That he wants John to have the things he wants in life—that he cares for him.

 

John doesn’t know what to say in response.  He’s never had someone want so badly for him to have good things, and it feels heavy.  It seems important, but he doesn’t know what to think about it, doesn’t know what to say about it.  And so he kisses Peter.  He kisses him, and bowls him over, and kisses him again and slides his rapidly hardening cock back inside Peter’s still slick arse.  And he fucks him. He fucks him slow, and intense until Peter has come so many times that he’s crying because of how his muscles ache.  And then John comes inside him.  He’s not wearing a condom, and so he fills Peter up with his come, and presses his face against Peter’s throat, and lets the come slowly drip out of Peter’s arse as his cock softens, and finally slips out. 

 

They fall asleep like that.  John draped across Peter, breathing in the smell of his hair, tasting the salt of his skin.  And when they wake up in the morning things are better.  John can finally breathe again.  He doesn’t feel so guilty.  And he doesn’t miss Peter quite so much because he moves his marathon study sessions out of the library, and onto Peter’s sofa. 

 

He actually gets more things done.  And Peter dotes on him, bringing him tea, and biscuits, and leading him to bed when he falls asleep, head pillowed on a tome the size of his torso.  It’s wonderful.  And it feels like the summer again.  It feels easy. 

 

And then one month later Peter asks John if he’ll come home with him for Christmas.

 

And one week after that John talks to a recruiter.

 

He enlists the next day. 

 

He doesn’t tell Peter.  And he doesn’t go anywhere for Christmas. 


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things finally come to a head between John and Peter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, I am so sorry I got so behind. Work has been kicking my ass, and the little free time I had to write I devoted to a couple of projects I kind of gave to myself as birthday presents. That said, work is finally going to be normal for a few months, and we should be back on schedule from now on. 
> 
> This chapter was difficult for me to write, but I hope it satisfies. 
> 
> As a warning: there is a fair amount of extremely homophobic language in this chapter at various points. If that makes you uncomfortable then consider carefully before reading. I think it's necessary for the story, though, and so I've kept it in.

It’s a lonely holiday, but John doesn’t mind, not really.  He needs to study, and he picks up some work the week of Christmas, when everyone else is celebrating.  So it’s good, better if he’s being honest.  He can always use the money.  John sends half of it to his parents, and that’s more welcome than he is, anyway.  Harry, though, he sees.  She comes down to London, and sleeps on his couch for a couple of days—family bonding time or some rot.  More like an excuse to party.  

 

They have supper the first evening, and then she’s drunk, and she’s out all hours of the night, stumbling home at dawn with some pretty young thing on her arm.  She gets vomit on the couch, and she races through all of the liquor in the flat.  And John gets to experience the joy of walking in on your sister and her date naked on the couch. 

 

He kicks them both out. It’s disgusting, what she’s doing, and he tells her so.  He screams at her to get her filthy, queer arse out of his house, and retreats to the bathroom.  He’s already under the spray of the shower before he realizes that he’s gasping for breath.

 

She’s gone when he emerges.  She, and the other woman, and all of her clothing, and the cash in John’s wallet are all gone. That’s good enough, he thinks, that’s good enough, and puts on his shoes and goes for a run. 

 

He’s not in terrible shape—the years of rugby and physical labor have kept him trim and strong, but he doesn’t have endurance.  Not the kind of endurance the recruiter said he would need. And so he runs until he’s dripping with sweat, and his cheeks are wind chapped, and he’s exhausted.  And the next day he does it again.  And then again.  And when Peter comes back from his holiday, he won’t talk to John.  He lets him in, but he’s angry, furious actually.  But John strips his clothes off, and pins Peter to the couch, and lets him stroke his newly strong thighs, and abs and shoulders, and John makes him forget.  He’s gotten so good at that over the last six months.  He’s almost able to forget too.  And what he can’t forget, he just loses in Peter’s kisses, and his whimpers, and his murmured _Johns_ and _sirs_ and _loves_.  He lets them drown out the admonishments in his head.  The fears, and the terror, and the knowledge that he’s going to break this precious thing he’s found, are only quiet in Peter’s arms. 

 

And it sort of works.  At least for a couple of months.  John is busy with school, and his new found obsession with exercise, and Peter is working all hours on project having to do with computer hardware that John simply doesn’t understand.  And when they see each other they’re exhausted, and desperate, and they eat dinner, and fuck and sleep, and there isn’t time for anything else.  There isn’t time for them to talk about Christmas.  There isn’t time for them to define what they are.  There isn’t time for them to talk about the future.  And so they don’t talk. Until one day they do, and that, of course, is that. 

 

It’s March, when things come to a head.  It’s Easter weekend, and the first holiday either of them have had since Christmas.  John shows up on Friday, with clothing, a couple of novels, his mail, and very little else. The lights are out in the flat, and John flops onto the couch.  Peter, it seems, isn’t home.  So he opens his bag, looking for a novel to pass the time, and then he hears a moan coming from the bedroom.  It sounds pained, and John jumps to his feet, spilling the contents of his bag across the floor.  John leaps over the mess and bolts for the bedroom.  And Peter is there, lying on his back on the bed.  He’s naked, and sweaty, and writhing. 

 

“How—bloody hell, Peter, you scared me.  You sounded like you were in pain.” 

 

“I am,” he gasps, knees bent, hips thrusting into the air. 

 

John takes a few steps forward, and then freezes. 

 

“Oh Peter,” he breathes, gazing at the young man laid out before him. 

 

Peter, it seems, has decided to torture himself in preparation for John in the most delicious way possible.  His nipples are clamped, with a chain between them.  His hands are cuffed to the bed.  His cock is nearly purple, flush with blood, and laying heavy and thick on his belly, the base wrapped by a cock ring.  And his arse, god his arse is the best.  John stares at the base of the big red plug he had purchased on whim a few weeks before.  Peter had never yet managed to fit the whole thing inside of him, but now, it seems, he has.  And he looks wrecked.  His hole is stretched tight around the base of the plug, and now John can see that his helpless thrusting isn’t so much into the air, as it is an attempt to rub the plug against his prostate.  If the puddle of precome on his belly is any indication, it seems he’s been managing quite well. 

 

“You couldn’t wait for me, could you? You just _needed_ to be all full up?” John demands, stalking over to his prone partner, and stroking the sensitive skin ringing the base of the plug. 

 

“Oh, god.” 

 

“You can’t come like this can you?”

 

John strokes Peter’s cock lightly with his fingernails. The rasp of nail against skin is almost immediately drowned out by a litany of pleas tumbling from Peter’s lips.  John grins, coating his fingers in precome, and moving his hand back Peter’s arse. 

 

“You make a very pretty picture, Peter, but you know how much I like stretching your arse—working you open with my fingers—and you took that pleasure away from me.  I don’t think I’ll be denied it though.  Perhaps one more finger.”

 

Peter freezes. “John?” he whispers, eyes full of fear. 

 

“You remember your safeword?”

 

Peter nods. 

 

“Then you know what to say if you want me to stop.” John pauses, cocking an eyebrow, until Peter shudders, and relaxes, taking in a shaky breath.  “Good boy,” he purrs, stroking that rigid ring of muscle until it too relaxes beneath his fingers. 

 

John plucks the lube off of the bed, and pops the cap, drizzling it all over his fingers and Peter’s arse until they’re both so slick that John easily slides the tip of his finger into Peter beside the plug. 

 

“Oh fuck, John.  John. John, please. Please?”

 

“Mm?” John strokes the delicate skin, working his finger in and out in tiny increments until he’s in to the first knuckle. 

 

“Fuck.  I need… John?”

 

“Use your words, sweetheart.” John grins, pulling his finger out, and scooping up more lube before pushing back in, slow and inexorable, until his finger is nearly fully buried in Peter’s arse. 

 

“More.  Now, John.”

 

John pauses, and Peter wails, grinding against John’s finger. 

 

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. No, no, I don’t mean to tell you what to do.”

 

“Very good. At least you realized your mistake.” 

 

“But . . . please?”

 

John sighs. “Well, I supposed you deserve _something_ for having arranged yourself so nicely and attired yourself so appropriately.” He leans over and presses hot, open-mouthed kisses to Peter’s nipples, first one then the other, laving them with his lips and tongue, and then switching to long licks in time with strokes of his finger. 

 

“That’s—”

 

“Good?”

 

“Not enough.  John I can’t.  God, I’m so close.” 

 

“Fine, fine.  You’re terribly demanding.  Alright, you can have either another finger, in your arse, or my fingers on your cock.  Make your decision quickly, though, because in about ten seconds you’re going to be holding this chain.” John tugs on the chain between Peter’s clamps. “In your mouth, and you won’t let it go unless you need to safeword, otherwise I’ll stop.  Understood?” 

 

Peter nods frantically.  “My cock.  Please, oh please, touch my cock.  I need it John. Oh god.”

 

John nods, brushing the sweat damp hair off of Peter’s forehead and dropping a kiss there.  He scoops up the chain, and presses it between Peter’s lips, groaning at the whine that escapes Peter as his nipples are held taut and red and shiny with spit. 

“So hot,” he whispers.  “I never get tired of this.  Alright, the cock ring is coming off.  You are not to come.  Understood?” 

 

Peter nods his head, wincing at the increased pain in his nipples.  John smirks and unclasps the cock ring, pulling it free and dropping it to the floor.  Peter’s cock bobs free, and John can feel Peter’s muscles clench around his finger as he desperately tries to hold on.  He manages, only just barely, and John can see that it won’t take much to send him hurtling over the edge.  Peter is covered in a thin sheen of sweat, chest heaving, hips unconsciously circling, desperate for more, or maybe less, no probably more pressure against his prostate. 

 

“Ready?” 

 

Peter sobs in agreement, and John wraps his hand around Peter’s cock, stroking it once, twice, pulling down the foreskin, and then scraping his thumbnail against Peter’s sensitive urethra in time with stroking his prostate, and Peter is lost.  He yelps, letting the chain fall from his mouth, and arching into John’s hand.  And John moans, working Peter through his orgasm, trying to milk every last drop of come out of him.  Eventually, though, he slows to a stop, and wipes his come covered hand off on Peter’s chest. 

 

“Fuck you’re hot,” he groans, slowly pulling his finger out of Peter’s arse and then collapsing next to him, reaching up to unclasp Peter’s handcuffs.   

 

“Mmm, thank you,” Peter murmurs, turning lazily to kiss John.  “You’re amazing.”

 

John whimpers into the kiss, and furiously yanks on his trousers, trying to undo the buttons and free his increasingly uncomfortable cock.  Peter pulls his hand away, and gently undoes the buttons, shoving John’s trousers off his hips and wrapping a hand around John’s cock. 

 

“Let me.  Please let me? What do you want?”

 

“Ride me.  Peter, come on, come on.”

 

Peter grins, kissing John’s cheek. 

 

“Oy, keep your wig on. Did you pick up more condoms?”

 

“By the sofa, in my bag.” 

 

Peter clambers over John, and walks to the living room, winking at him as he goes.  John groans, fisting his cock, and trying to kick his trousers and pants off.  After wrestling with them for a couple of minutes, he finally succeeds. 

 

“Come on, Peter,” he bellows. “Hurry up, or I won’t let you come again.” 

 

The flat is eerily quiet.  John sits up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. 

 

“Peter?”

 

Nothing. 

 

John runs into the sitting room, heedless of his nudity, and Peter is sitting on the rug, John’s things strewn about around him. 

 

“Peter? What’s—”

 

“Stop it, stop it, John,” he growls, brandishing an opened letter.  “Were you even going to tell me?”

 

“What?”

 

“About the military you arse.  I see they’ve given you a ship out date.  Were you even going to tell me? Or were you just going to disappear?  How could you enlist without talking to me first?”

 

“Why would I talk to you?”

 

“Because I’m your bloody boyfriend.”

 

“No.  I’m not.  We aren’t.  This isn’t like that, you know that Peter.”

 

John retreats to the bedroom, furiously pulling on all of his clothes, trying to ignore the lump in his throat.  Peter follows him, not bothering to get dressed, just watching. 

 

“Yes it is, John.  This is exactly like that.  What did you think was going on? You’re a bright boy, come on.”

 

“We’re just shagging.”

 

John stomps out of the bedroom, shoves his feet into shoes, and starts gathering his things back into his bag.  Peter sinks to his knees next to John and rests a hand on his shoulder. 

 

“John, please.  I know you’re frightened, I’m frightened too, but we can do better together.  I know what you’re going through—”

 

“You have no idea,” John hisses. 

 

“Yes, I do.  I was just like you—”

 

“I’m nothing like you,” John snarls, jumping to his feet and shoving Peter away. 

 

Peter tumbles onto his back, yelping as he comes down on his arse, still stuffed with an increasingly uncomfortable plug. 

 

“John—”

 

“Shut up. Just shut up.  I’m not queer like you.  It wasn’t anything. I’m not a fucking faggot,” he shouts.

 

The words seem to echo back to him, in the quiet apartment.  There’s a ringing in his ears, and the quiet whisper of _faggot._

 

Peter swallows.  “I think you should leave now. And I don’t think you ought to come back.”

 

_Cocksucker_

 

“My pleasure.”

 

 

John whirls around and heads for the door desperate to put some distance between him and Peter.

 

“Goodbye, John,” Peter whispers. 

 

_Poofter_

_Shirtlifter_

_Fucking queer_

John slams the door behind him. 

 

He runs the whole way home.  And if he’s crying no one will ever be able to tell, because the skies open up and pour down on him.  His legs start to ache, but he keeps running and running.  He’s grateful for the chance to mourn. 


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John learns that the best way to move on is to find something better. It takes a bit of trial and error, but eventually something sticks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the delay. I've been dealing with some personal things that have made this story very difficult for me to write. I have no intention of stopping this story, but I don't want to make promises that I can't keep regarding update timelines. 
> 
> I'm not going anywhere, though. That much I can promise. 
> 
> Enjoy! As always comments and criticisms are very much appreciated.

He gives himself the weekend.  He gives himself the full three days. _Thank fuck for Easter_ , he thinks for the first time perhaps ever.  And he hates himself a little bit for it.  He hares how weak he feels. How needy, how lonely.  But his apartment is so bare, and it seems like half of his things must still be at Peter’s.  So he runs until his lungs burn, and the sweat dripping down his face makes his eyes sting, and then he runs a little more.  It’s for the army—he thinks—I need to prepare.  But mostly it’s for the way he feels when he’s running.  The way he can feel every muscle moving, every joint flexing, and how he feels so much within himself that he almost doesn’t miss the touch of another person.  And the drumbeat of his heart is layered over the thunk of his feet against the pavement, and topped off with the cymbal rattle of breath escaping his lips.  It’s a symphony of percussion, and it drowns out the sound of those words that seem to echo relentlessly in the cavern of his skull. 

 

On Sunday he comes back from a run to a solitary voicemail on his answering machine.  It’s Peter and John almost doesn’t listen. 

 

“You left a ton of your rubbish at my house, John Watson.  I would have brought it to you because I’m a bloody prize of a man, but you know I realized—I don’t actually have your address.  It’s going on the street at 6 o’clock tonight.  If you don’t want it nicked I suggest you be there.”

 

And that’s it.  John listens to it twice more, and then deletes it, and pulls his shoes back on.  It’s half four by the time he’s on his way, but he should be fine on time. 

 

He isn’t. He sicks up about halfway there, and has to stop for a rest.  By the time he gets to Peter’s it’s five past.  And there are his things.  He’s missed him, and his things have been piled into a box and tossed to the curb like so much trash.  John leans down to pick up his things, jerking to look at the window when he catches a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye.  He waits.  The curtains don’t move again.  And John goes home. 

 

He spends most of Monday sleeping off his cheap scotch hangover, and the aching muscles from his runs.  And when he wakes up Tuesday he resolves to move on. 

 

“Forget him,” he murmurs to himself. “You have other friends, you bloody wanker.” 

 

Actually John isn’t sure if he _does_ still have other friends.  It’s been months since he’s seen any of them outside of class and the library.  But they’re alright blokes, and when he tells them he was too busy having it off with someone to call, well they don’t seem pissed. 

 

“So when do we get to meet this bird, Johnny? Any girl who can keep _you_ from trying to get a leg over with anybody else must be quite a lady.”

 

“Oy! I’m not a slag.  And it’s finished.  But she… she was something.”

 

“Me and the lads are going out on Thursday.  Think you’ll be ready to get your girl out of your system?  I’ll rustle up a date for you.” 

 

“More than ready.” 

 

And that’s all it takes.  John has a date with a lovely little blond with a lush set of tits on Thursday.  He takes her home and tires himself right out.  They have breakfast the next morning, and she seems keen on a second round, but John begs off. 

 

It’s not a good idea to get close to anyone right now, he thinks. 

 

And then Saturday there’s a brunette who seems quite impressed by his impending future fighting for Queen and country.  He goes to hers.  He doesn’t stay over. 

 

There’s too much work to be done for anything more, he thinks.

 

And then there are a pair of them the next week. 

 

And a tall one with ash blonde hair. 

 

And an Irish girl he _doesn’t_ regale with stories about his future. 

 

And none of them last.  They’re lovely girls, but he can’t get serious with anyone when he’ll be off god knows where for the next few years.  He just needs a bit of fun. 

 

One night there’s a slim girl with clever blue eyes, and short black curls. She captures his attention from the second he walks into the pub.  And for once he makes an effort to pull, instead of falling into something.  She’s special, he thinks.  He has to have her. 

 

And he does.  Or rather, he gets her off with his tongue a couple of times, and she tries to return the favor.  She’s not exactly brilliant at it, but when he closes his eyes, and sinks his fingers into her hair it’s almost enough.  And when he starts to thrust into the wet heat of her mouth he’s so close, but then she’s coughing and shoving him backwards onto the bed.  And she’s looming over him, cursing him out with more skill than any of his Rugby lads.  He almost wants to smile at that, but she is still yelling, and his head is swimming from too much alcohol and his ears are ringing from the slap to his cheek that she lands when he doesn’t get out quickly enough.  And mostly he’s a little sick because for a minute he had ignored the taste of her on his lips, and the smell of her perfume in the air, and her breasts pressing against his thighs.  For a minute he had almost thought she was Peter. 

 

He doesn’t go home that night.  He goes back out and finds another girl to go home with.  And he fingers her and fucks her and licks her until she’s woozy from the pleasure, and the smell of her cunt seems to stick to John, and he can’t forget where he is.  He leaves before she wakes up. 

 

And that’s how John spends his nights.  Days he spends in the library.  And nights are for tossing and turning at home, or sliding into a woman’s bed and trying to escape the phantom presence of Peter. 

He graduates with honors.  And he sleeps right through the night without the aid of alcohol or a woman. 

 

And then he packs up his apartment, and he’s off to Pirbright. 

 

Things will be different, he thinks.  It will be exciting, and exhilarating, and everything will change.  I will change, he thinks.  I’ll get this out of my system.  And in a few years I’ll be ready for Medical School, and after that a wife and a white picket fence. 

 

It takes him two weeks to realize just how right he is about the first part.  It takes him twenty years to finally give up on the last piece though. Twenty years, a bullet to the shoulder, an assassin, and a man who barrels into his life and gives him everything he was looking for on a silver platter.  It takes him the last five years to work up the courage to take it.

 

But that’s then.  And this is now.  And now John is tired and sweaty and a little terrified, and it feels more right than anything he’s ever known.  More right than Uni. More right than medicine.  More right, even, than Peter.  And he can finally breathe. 


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John finds his war. And finally has something better to fight than himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to apologize up front for any errors in this chapter. Normally I do a few readthroughs before I post, but I'm a bit behind, and not ready to wallow in this chapter again quite yet. 
> 
> A few notes on setting: I've set this in the real world. To the best of my ability I have tried to slot John into the actual timeline. That puts us in the middle of 1994 when the chapter starts. I do discuss real events in this chapter, and some of them may be deeply upsetting. If anyone wants a rundown of the events before, or in lieu of reading the chapter, message me here or on [tumblr](http://mahons-ondine.tumblr.com/) and I would be happy to give you any information you need. 
> 
> So here: a chapter I'm both proud of, and terrified of. Let me know what you think.

The first few weeks are a bit of a daze, but when he can finally think past the relentless barrage of ‘run, run, run’ and ‘god, I’m tired’ and ‘guns are bloody loud’ and ‘this food is dreadful’, well he almost doesn’t need to.  He is utterly exhausted and achy and his body can barely hold on, but every night he can sleep. Every night he closes his eyes and sleeps and sleeps.  He doesn't dream of uncomfortable truths anymore. Instead he dreams of blood and steel. He dreams of bullets and scalpels and running and running and running. And he has never felt more secure. Never felt more certain.

 

He turns twenty-one five weeks into basic training and it feels like a fresh start. He doesn't get any letters from his family, but he realizes he's never sent his address. Somewhere in the exhaustion and joy he hasn’t had time to think about his family.  And he finds he doesn't mind all that much.  His friends, brothers-in-arms, are more than enough. It's a new family, the army, and it's nothing like the old one, he thinks. Nothing at all. 

 

Basic is over a couple of months later, and it's on to combat medic training.  He learns so much. So much more than he ever learned in college. He learns that he has nerves of steel. He learns that he has deft fingers, that he's good in a crisis. And factual, more pressing things too. He learns CPR. He learns how to decide who can be saved and who you cannot help. He learns to make choices. And he learns that his Secondary School English teacher was smarter than he thought. All families are alike. 

 

It starts with one word--blood. They are discussing safety procedures, and it comes up. Of course it comes up. It's the elephant in every operating theater, in every university dorm, in the bed of every man who has ever looked at another man with anything other than brotherly affection. 

 

“The gay disease.”

 

“Yeah, it’s god’s punishment for the poofters.”

 

“I heard you can get it just from touching them.”

 

“That’s bullshit innit? Kissing them more like.” 

 

And that’s just before the instructor arrives.  But when he does it’s a barrage of photos.  Of sores.  Of wasted bodies.  Of horror stricken eyes.  ‘Always wear your gloves.  Wear a mask.  It’s a death sentence.’

 

“What about women? Can’t they get it too?”

 

John winces.  He knows, he knows what people will say.  And he’s just glad someone else has asked the question for him.  He hopes that they’ll ask more.  That someone will be able to read his mind and pluck the questions right out of his brain and just tell him, just tell him the truth.  How dangerous is it really? Do you have to suck them off to get it? Or get fucked? How do you know? How do you know? How do you know? 

 

“Only if they’re shagging shirt lifters!”

 

“Or bi-sex-u-els.”

 

“Alright now, lads!  None of you lot have it, but you just be careful now.  And keep away from the birds who aren’t very discriminating.”

 

John keeps his head down.  He takes notes.  He takes such careful notes.  And when it’s over he heads straight for the showers.  He lets the hot water pound against his skull, and he thinks, you stupid bloody cock. You, John Watson, are an idiot. 

 

“Never again,” he whispers. “Never again.”

 

He finishes his training.  And then he’s at a base for a little while.  But the IRA are bombing them again.  People are dying.  In London. In Manchester.  And when things have gotten slow, when John can feel himself sinking back into old habits.  When he’s waking up more and more with his cock hard, and a whisper of lips against his, stubble brushing his cheek.  When there are nights that he hears his roommate with a girl, or even on his own, and he can’t stop himself from sliding a hand in his pants and stroking his cock.  Deep groans seem to echo in his ears, and the thought of long fingers on him, around him, just hounds him at all hours.  And he can’t find a woman to bury himself in.  Or he can, but it isn’t enough, isn’t right.  When it all seems to just build and build, and he feels like he’s going to lose his mind to the steady, ever on coming need, well then he gets his orders.  Northern Ireland.  County Armagh. 

 

He’s needed.  _He’s needed._ And god it feels so good to be needed.  To have a purpose and a goal.  To have the danger, and the excitement.  And for once the danger isn’t something inside of him.  For once the danger is something he can see, he can hear. There’s an enemy that he can see, and fight.  And even if it’s only patrols, and border guarding.  Even if they’re only shot at a handful of times in the year that they’re stationed there, well, it’s something. 

 

John Watson has spent his whole life at war.  With his father.  With himself. But he finally gets to be a part of something bigger, something more real than anything he has ever known. And it’s thrilling. 

 

It eats up his waking hours.  And there’s nothing else to think about.  No time for anything else. No room for anything else in his brain.

 

Stephen Restorick is shot on February 12th. They go home the next month.

 

John doesn’t have any tears for his brother-in-arms, only determination.  He will be there next time, he thinks.  He will be the one holding the tourniquet, stopping the destruction of the 50cal.  And so he starts to study.  Next time, he thinks.  Next time. 

 

And when they are bombing Iraq he thinks, next time, next time. Because he’s finally in medical school.  He finally has somewhere to go.  Someone to be.  And it’s easy, somehow, not to think about it.  It’s easy to study, and go to classes.  To sleep with women until they want to meet his parents, or god forbid, have him meet theirs.  It’s easy not to want.  To ignore his dreams.  To ignore the way an elegant neck makes his mouth water.  To ignore the hands that populate his fantasies.  The cocks he still can’t stop staring at in porn.  Because he is someone, now. 

 

He is someone, and he will be someone.  And there will be purpose, and meaning and danger and life.  And he won’t feel the loneliness creeping up on him the way it always seems to when he’s at a girlfriend’s house.  He won’t feel the paralyzing sense of wrong, wrong, wrong that seems to choke him when his girlfriends suggest that sharing a flat might be cheaper.  Because he knows that a flat is just one step away from a house. From picket fences. From children, like boulders, bearing down on him, intent on pinning him to British soil.  Intent on keeping him still. 

 

And then they are in Kosovo, and he wonders if he’s missing his chance. If this was to have been his war, if only he hadn’t wanted too much.  If only he hadn’t wanted to be the one holding a life in his hands, the one making decisions.  But he’s halfway there, and there’s no backing out. 

 

But there’s Sierra Leone. And that could be his war too.  That could be his fight.  Only it isn’t.  Only there’s so much more left to study.  So many more women to fuck and forget.  So many more lonely nights. 

 

But it’s good too. Because there’s always a war, he thinks.  There will be a war for me. There’s time yet.  There’s time. Because there will always be things worth fighting for, he thinks.  And there will always be men like me, who need to fight for something. 

 

And because of this.  Because he is so certain that there will be something waiting for him when he’s finally ready, the last year of medical school seems to fly by. 

 

There are books.  So many books.  And exams.  And blood and blood and blood.  And his dreams are full of bandages.  Of scalpels.  Of bullets, again.

 

And he feels clean and free and certain. 

 

And he graduates in the spring of 2001.  He is finally a Doctor.  He’s been in the army for seven years, and he is finally a doctor.  And he hasn’t touched a man since Peter.  He hasn’t so much as kissed a man in seven years.  And instead he has fought, and learned, and bled.  And he has a uniform, and a title, and a degree. 

 

He graduates in the spring of 2001.

 

His war doesn’t come. 

 

There are long months, hot, aching summer months.  And he starts to dream again. 

 

He dreams of Peter. 

 

For the first time in years he dreams of his lips, of his touch, of his voice.  And they threaten everything he has built.  The choices of his waking hours can’t seem to erase the reality of his dreams.  They are more real, in those moments between sleep and wakefulness, than the women in his bed, than the sheets sticking to his sweating form. 

 

He doesn’t have a choice.  John doesn’t have a choice.  Because the dreams are making him unfocused.  Ruining his concentration.  Ruining everything he has worked so hard for. 

 

It’s a Monday.  He decides on a Monday.  He decides to watch.  To look.  Not to touch. 

 

He still knows the bars.  Some of the have closed.  Most of them are the same.

 

The men are younger than he remembers.  But then again he’s older than you ever think of being at 20.  He’s 28.  And a doctor.  And a soldier.  And they notice him. 

 

There’s a pretty young thing who is sitting at the other end of the bar.  And he looks, and looks.  And John looks right back. 

 

He still remembers how to do it  Of course he remembers.  It’s not as though he hasn’t worked over the memories in his mind until they’re etched so deep he can’t ever seem to forget. 

 

And yet it’s different.  Because seven years is a long time.  And he’s forgotten how good it feels to be rough with someone.  He’s forgotten what it feels like to press a hard body into the wall.  How hot a man is inside.  How tight.  And how powerful it can make him feel to pound into someone.  To lose himself in the taking.  To sink his teeth in someone’s neck when he comes. 

 

But then it’s over.  And John goes home as lonely as he’s ever been.  And he has to wonder.  Is it not the women who are the problem?  Maybe John is what is wrong. 

 

He doesn’t sleep well.  He tells his C.O. that he’s ill, and he goes back to bed. 

 

Finally he gets up at one.  And the disgust he feels threatens to swamp him. But he goes through the motions.  He makes tea.  He makes toast.  He turns on the news. 

 

And there are burning buildings in New York. 

 

He watches the videos of the planes.  He watches them hit the towers. And again.  And again. And again. And again. And again.

 

Just before two he watches one of them fall. 

 

He grits his teeth against the on-coming tide of horror.

 

This, he thinks with grim determination, is my war. 

 

He washes his tea cup, and the other tower falls.

 

He goes to work.  They ship out within the month. 

 

And every day he thinks: this.  This is what was waiting for me.  This is what I was waiting for.  This is where I need to be. 

 

There’s nothing else.    


End file.
